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L B Jun 2018
Later at the same address
A storm of words reaches flood stage
A couch is bobbing in the currents
towards its mangled ruin-nexus
of matchsticks in cyclonic flow
among the renegade
trash
hanging
from the limbs like tinsel

Meanwhile
chair heaved through her door
Like the river
I am not above my rage
at this stage
of more than enough....
Clever daughter's got my goat
Turns my words on dimes
Lays into me
her score of blame
Each blow to drop me further

presses all my buttons at one time
despite the flashing
Warning! Warning!

“Fine! Fine!”

She blows-out through the afternoon
right past me
in a torrent of curses
A stubborn perfect storm
of words
has taken out parental dam
and blown out toward the Bay of Freedom
to the sorrows of her day

The river may crack its whip
But its got nothing on her

nothing is left standing
in her way
Isaac Aug 2018
Life is so brutal
It mangles the heart
Beaten and bruised
From the very start
In a world fallen
From its original glory
We need to bring Jesus
Back to the story
His voice will heal
And mend your soul
If you give him the time
He can make you whole
Each day is a chance
To let him touch you
If you open your heart
His words will renew
Written 12 August 2018
Poetic T Feb 27
The lumber jack, was on his way
             home.
Driving through a woodland of
                                creaking trees.

They found his car, the rooftop
                                    crushed..
         gusts of wind blew through
                                     the tree tops...

And the coroner and police officer
                                shuddered
      as
           they gazed at each other..

Is it me or does the wind blowing
             through the leaves sound like

                                                 laughter..

And with that another branch fell
upon the already mangled wreckage..

             They had to make sure he was
                                  really felled,
                            there was no warning.

And as the breeze continued the noise
                turned to screams, whistling
                                                 around the pair..

Both cars where found later on
                                               the next afternoon..
                 hundreds of meters from each other with..

                                         Buckled rooftops..

Even there was no wind, the rustling leaves
                               sounded like far away laughter..
                                and the group just looked in confusion.
They where outnumbered and didn't even realise it.
Andrew Oct 2017
You act callously crude
Like Cronenberg's brood
You keep the body horror
In the naughty drawer
I feel my body's poorer
So you convince me I'm rich
Then treat me like an itch
And scratch
To detach

You invited me to your chateau
Then left me on this plateau
For my beating heart exploded from my chest
Once I foolishly entered your nasty nest
There I lay
As immobile prey
My body was infected
By your touch
And my mind dissected
Way too much

You passionately present me with body horror
I really resent you for being a shoddy sawyer
Cutting me down but not completely
Your lackluster love travels obliquely
Dislocating my horrified heart
My rib cage begins to part
As my mangled love
Escapes with my blood
My fingers are breaking
Trying to carry the relationship
Happiness I'm faking
When you crack your elation whip

When I'm powerless to the *****
I become showerless in a hurry
And my skin starts to rot
While I lie on your cold cot
You're my unforgiving cop
And the horrors never stop
ryn Sep 2014
Elephant in the room*, shoo the hell away!
Don't stick around; I wish you wouldn't stay

Don't mess with my head, inciting all I feel
I don't need you here, I want to heal

Stop blaring in my ears, your noxious lies
I'm sick to the stomach with my pathetic cries

Resist flapping your gigantic ears
They simply just fan the rage in my tears

Quit blocking my view with your sheer enormity
Get out of my thoughts so better I could see

Halt your incessant skin rubbing against my sores
Chafing me raw on top of my existing scores

Pull out your pointy tusks, they poke and jab
I'm bent in many places; I don't need more stabs

Take your infernal rear out of my face!
I'm self-destructing, counting up the days

Cease your retaliation, leave with no protest
Go find and sit yourself in someone else's nest

Drop your intentions to stomp me broken
I'm mangled enough; almost misshapen

End this mindless rampage...please
Let me iron myself straight, in peace...

Dear elephant, have you gone?
Thank you for the blight of my time, you've spawned
zebra Aug 2018
im a self describing a self
a face on a liquid surface
a plasticity
a brain
a three pound infinity
always remodeling itself
and making new copies

a copy
of
a copy
of
a copy

a massive  accumulation of copies
each a slight distortion
from it's original eminence
a history of minute alterations
all subtle deceptions

my so-called reality
a memory
of
a memory
of
a memory
a repetition pouring the self out
self corrupting the self
until it is somebody else

a fibbing shifty double-dealing soft machine
trying to remain intact
it's signature
a disjunctured awareness

my cells talk **** about each other
i'm more microbes than human
every synaptic light of the divine casting a shadowed past
a devil to the true origin
a mangled remembering
my pillar of reality
spirit from matter
not the other way around

i no longer recognize myself
am i human
or perhaps a robot
an alien
a walk in
that left the original inhabitant
disembodied
to wander perplexed in a netherworld
lost and crying

or, just a bad copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
of
a co

py

of

a

a

co
Hirondelle Sep 2018
Oh, how I love that wall!
My wall, your wall, his wall, our wall...
Solid before many a starry-eyed soul.

Tossing square into a granite fortress,
The ashen stoniness denying access,
Ouch! Got your head in a mangled mess?

It was all there yet you didn’t see.
That grim jester of far-gone fantasy.
Next comes the swat without courtesy.

That proud wall, high and tall,
Didn’t even think you were a sore,
When you burst and lost in a ghastly gore.

No dirge to the swatted little fly,
No litany for a crushed buzzing lie,
No reason even for a sad little cry.

That wise wall, high and nigh,
Didn’t bat an eye or even sigh,
While pranking your sad foolish try.

Small like a fly before big delusions,
**** like a fly in alluring confusions,
Such a wasted lie on a wall’s exclusions.

Realism will always soar,
And never notice that vapid gore,
On that proud wise wall.

©️Hirondelle (24/09/2018)
Sometimes you hear a knock on your door when that little voice of reality eventually winds its way back to you through the hubbub and turmoil of your delusion-spurred emotions. Yet, you realize, over time it has grown so big and your eidolons are suddenly micrified to the reality of a mere fly. And the swat... how sovereign... how overbearing reality is! The swat may even come by the hands of the kindest person you have known. Reality busts the dark fly, the Kafkaesque metamorphosis of an otherwise rational man, in order to let him reincarnate into a being with a realistic orientation so that he can soar over the trammelling confines of his delusions... So not all blows are meant to obliterate, some really do liberate. And what better hand to deliver the blow than that of a kind, merciful person? The fly, with his gibberish, make-believe buzz should not encroach upon the righteous order of reality. And there rises the wall and checks the fly until the swat comes with efficient finality.

Ouch!

Now, this mashed up fly-man has to break loose from that crushed, sticky paste of his delusions and leave it on the wall. Not easy enough a labour for all! But realism is only for the strong with which to soar.

So how can a man end up being a fly?

Delusion besodden though a man might be, he is nevertheless faintly aware of that feeble call of reality. No one can shut their ears fast to that child. And this call of reality betrays all false hues of our delusional sandcastles. The bigger our delusions, the smaller our self esteem when we realise that we have veered far into that world of delusions. The more beautiful the delusion, the uglier the fly. And the wall... Every starry-eyed fool needs that wall. Somebody has to stop that fly.
laura Sep 2018
kooky, kooky llamas and duckies
frank ocean and kanye westy
in your car, rain pouring on our gucci
escape into your house, but feeling weird

like we're gonna do something
wrings the self and our hair of water
like our mangled garments
you play destiny 2 and i read poetry

not one hundred emoji on that chief
what we're supposed to be or do today
on our day off, write about nothing
and realize that's how it's supposed to be
Eryck Sep 2018
It's a wide open art,
from the start.
Rules are for schools.
Dont fret em,
forget em.
So
Relax with a syntax,
clown around,
with a pronoun.
Squeeze the ******,
of a dangling participle.

Free flying like geese,
creative words release,
make it up if you please.
Example--the plural of mice is meese.

Flowery language isn't the exclusive domain of the professional writer, it's for everyone!
To continue then,
about the writers pen.
No write or wrong,
nothings too short or long.
Mangled,
bungled,
butchered,
bumbled, don't matter.
We don't need a librarian to admire what we have done.

Words aren't hard,
fling them unbarred.
It's not arithmetic,
or teaching a cat a trick.
Crunch them uniting,
mix them combining.
Fling them,
meld them,
Verb them,
sell them.
We don't need a New York Times best seller to enjoy the art of writing.

Uncrate it,
create it.
Use it,
and abuse it.
Don't bar us
from a thesaurus
Or a dictionary.
The spiel
is to write real
tell the tale
seal the deal.
WORD HATERS live in the town called Fictionary.
Fun with words
Andrew Nov 2017
There's a line drawn in the sand
It's a line drawn by the man
It's a line drawn by the hand
That feeds
Our breed
Misery

There are lines drawn on our faces
As sand hits the ground
These fault lines are from the races
Our lives have found
The lines get deeper
Like cuts on our skin
The lines get steeper
Like our chance to win

We're thrown into a landslide
We see the ground collapsing
For all the silly things we lie
And the things we say in passing
The momentum of this earthquake
Will never cease, only take
And these tectonic plates shift
When we live a hectic hate rift

I need safety
To embrace me
And save me from my world imploding
Before anyone can say they know me
But the planet is shaking
My mangled mind aching
I trap myself inside a steel vault
Never forgetting this is my fault
Apathy Jul 2014
The storm has gone
It's eerily quiet
As darkness creeps in
I try not to fight it.

My body is broken
****** and mangled
I hug my knees closer
My heartstrings all tangled.

My skin is stripped away
Taking my protection
My thoughts are dull rusty blades
Cutting deep, horrid infections.
Please, don't leave me alone...
galio Mar 2016
what victory is it,
when he is not beside me
in soft flesh
but mangled fur

the world will rise and fall
always in a turmoil
those who seek to destroy
minds will stay living after dead

celebrate for now, if you must
already a new danger approches
He was not the first to try
He was the only i've loved.
yet another dragon age poem
Andrew Jul 2017
This country's being privatized
By politicians using private eyes
Manipulating through public lies
And their hate filled cries
The question becomes a stark why
We ask the dark unwise
Driving us to laced dimes
Or writing ****** rhymes
Love is the answer I surmise
Nobody else buys
Emotions have no value in the marketplace
Unless you're of a certain race
That reminds them of themself
Then they're more likely to share their wealth

We need more than paper *****
To tear down these paper walls
The order becomes too tall
When we apply an objective concept (currency)
To a subjective principle (value)
Our ideas of value get tangled
Our empathy is mangled
Our discourse becomes angled
Discussions turn to wrangles
And cats are bred Bengal
As our domestic lives
Never left the jungle
But there's always a rumble
Regimes always tumble
Humanity continues to stumble
Earth's health starts to fumble
Molesting the planet like a creepy uncle
Until we see our follies unfold
Then will we be so bold
To say we can do it on our own?
Hannah Christina Sep 2018
I bought myself a kite to fly
I tossed it up and ran around
I tried to pull it through the sky
But found it just dragged on the ground.

It landed in the mud, it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragic tale of the kite I numbered one.

My second kite was different.
It caught a mighty gale
I flew it well, then let it go
And in the end I failed.

It joined released balloons and leaves, whatever else is there
In the *****, lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.

I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.

The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.

I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
Of dreams and men.

I'll probably change the title and maybe edit more, we'll see.  This was honestly in my drafts for like over two months.  I wanted to finally publish it.
Sally Tsoutas Nov 2017
It's that time again.
When rangey youth
in wounded utes
are sent to pick up tin.
Eyes peeled for
shiny mangled bikes
and steely bits
of thing.
I want to see
the crucible
they put it in.
Behold the pearly
metallurgic
mess unfold.
A gleaming steaming
mass of brassy storm
So cooked
and cooled
and coaxed
and clicked
and jewelled
into mercurial form
Then moulded
bright and fine
once more.
This is the
Copper loop
of life we mine.
Eternal
Circulated
Alchemy
Divine.
Council cleanup in my neighbourhood this week. A scavenger's delight.
Andrew Aug 2017
Every night I die in an airplane
Beads of sweat fall like rain
Every night I die in a plane crash
I wake up feeling like plain trash
Because every night my plane dives into the ocean
I can't believe the virtual reality of the motion
All my friends and family are there
I watch them drown
Leaving me marooned at sea
The river Styx of my dreams
I wake up marooned at bed
Swimming in a sea of sweat
None of my friends and family are there
And my adrenaline nightmares keep me scared
Because if I fall asleep
It's a nosedive I reap

Every night I die in an airplane
Why is this image so ingrained?
Every night I die in a plane crash
Pressure crushes me to plain ash
Because every night my plane flies into a mountain
The passenger's blood fills my eyes like fountains
All my friends and family are there
I watch them burn
Leaving me stranded in the hills of hell
Until I understand the pills too well
I wake up stranded in bed
Buried in an avalanche of sweat
None of my friends and family are there
And my reality has begun to tear
When I keep dying in my dreams
My mentality rips at the seams

Every night I die in an airplane
Why must my mind be so untame?
Every night I die in a plane crash
And my life becomes a plain flash
Because every night my plane flips upside down
As my useless body is tossed round and round
All my friends and family are there
I watch them get mangled
Leaving me to die at high speeds
With corpses that profusely bleed
I wake up dying in bed
Flipped face down in a pool of sweat
None of my friends and family are there
I begin to wonder if they even care
Because I watch them die every night
It makes me love them more
Because I watch them die every night
My life becomes a chore
But there's nothing for death to reclaim
When I'd just cross over to another plane
Rowan Deysel Dec 2016
Caucasian cadaver in the windless woods.
Carelessly hanging from a tree.
Colorless face looking down.
Carrion yet to be seen.
Creation of an evil man.
Displaying his departed art.
Completed, his compelling plan.
Of helping death do its part.
Few colors, fewer sounds.
White skin contrasts the black dress.
Faded yellow floating all around.
Splatters of red fill the rest.
A frightful figure that overwhelms.
Above the confused and thorny trails.
All the shallow know themselves.
At the sight of this female.
Breathless before being dangled.
Dead before being displayed.
Beautiful body, cold and mangled.
Death magnificently portrayed.
Multiple stab wounds in your back.
Added to the smell of war.
Mind immersed in barren black.
Gnawed eyes to watch and adore.
Dripping, dim and dreadful.
The portrait he wanted to smear.
Your future as empty as your words.
Your hollowness shown clear.
You don't know what you're missing. 
Elders still die, the young still grow.
The leaves below are hissing.
At the corpse of a girl I used to know.
Made when I was an angsty, silly teenager who just got dumped by his first girlfriend.
Darla Bean Jan 30
You destroy whatever grasps your clutch.
and whatever mangled mess that you leave behind,
Never amounts to much.

The opposite Midas touch.
The grasp of mud, and rust.

Manipulate that is good
Into garbage and disgust.

And woe is you, as the threads unwind-
That nobody owes you trust.
hey, this one isn't about me this time.
Kara Jean Jun 2016
The wheel clinched tight

Fingers numb and white

Hyperventilating

Counting to ten

Anxieties curse

Mind, a devine quality

Over....
Thinking

A flash of death as her passengers lay lifeless

Death

She pictures faces

A ****** mess

Stillness

Everyone sits singing and unblemished

A true definition of mangled point of view

A routine her mind has provided

Someone else hits the petal accelerating

She is familiar with picturing the world dying

She is now stamped with, "I'm part of the ****** up society"

Stay clear

She is endearing

The tea cup world believes she is dangerous
jane taylor May 2016
hitherto i naively challenged
my decision to enter an ominous existence
a vicious maze veiled in obscurity
inconceivable to navigate without the accumulation
of bruises, heartache, and psychic mutilation

the torment’s ache so unfathomable
i begged to evaporate beseeching death’s arrival
and with the dexterity of a masterful wizard
i magically spun threads of my shredded soul
into a mangled ball of mental lacerations

then stealthily in the opaque of the night
i rushed the frigid black ocean’s high tide
and deluging myself in the ebony water
i buried the battered ball
now deeply eclipsed in the onyx abyss

it sapped all my strength to hold it under
drowning in the wave’s of sea motion
stinging salt alive on my pours
gasping for air i surrendered my grip
releasing my marred orb of élan vital

capitulating to the sand on the beach
i ceded the fight and watched the sphere roll
unraveling it glistened against the white sand
an opalescent tapestry lit by twilight
mirroring the stars against the coal sky

in the lustrous lunar midnight
reflected back by silver moonlight
littered with specks of fluorescent insight
astonished i drew in my breath as i read
words interlaced in the untangled web

the wounds are there
creating a looking glass
peer in
and you will heal
your own consciousness

©2016janetaylor
Kara Jean May 2016
A curtain held by one nail
Faded blush pink, tilted
Ratted hair into knotted beauty
Eyeliner set as feathers
***** crusted stage, crackling with every step
Audience of the haunted, ghostly clapping
Amused by the audacity
She twirls
Egotistical, making her toes blister
She closes her eyes, her thighs tingling
Meat hanging on a bone barely
Hells lounge
What a crowd
The devil sharpens his hair
Perfect horns of despair
He smokes his cigar
"Keep going my queen
Famous was the only request
You never said where"
Satan's personal entertainer
He kisses her forehead,
carressing her mangled body
He loves her the best a man can,
when being the king of hell
A ferocious request, "bow everybody"
Michael Kariuki Feb 2018
A knife has ploughed into my wrist,
    tearing my veins like little blood-red strings.
A knife is maneuvering through my arteries
        slicing and dicing like a butcher.
The tip of the blade has survived
    the journey to the other side of my wrist
leaving a cavernous hole of flesh and mangled meat.
        The knife is not done, it wants more flesh.
Blood is spurting onto the floor,
    Morphing into a scenic red painting.
The blood looks like grape juice spilling out of
        my straw of an artery.

Did you think that the knife was the slaughterer?
    A hand is directing the knife.
A hand is training the knife to carve out
        my mashed wrist into smuttier mesh.
The fountain of blood spraying around the room
    is making me dizzy.
My ruby eyes follow the faint pathway of the hand
        controlling the piercing blade;
up the forearm, round the elbow, along the shoulder,
    till I can't look anymore. Why?
I'd be glaring into my own ruby red eyes,
        wouldn't I?
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