"marksmen" poems
As this world wretches behind the piles of our institutional bones, I turn to look the other way.
When the beggars graze my pant leg, I don't stop mid stride and feign over their disparity,
For gaining the holy marksmen’s approval. When Judas kissed sanctity’s cheek beside the frames of broken-hearted men, I shook the feeling from my sleeve.
And I no longer feel guilt, shame,
Out of mere cerebral obligation.
So, have me for a worthless sinner. I will fall to the dust before I bring myself to stand beside the husks of humanity that so many have become; spewing their filth on unfortunate blindfolded men, expecting me to follow suit.
Well, **** off, kindly.
I’m living for the god that answers to no titles, and parsonages none of these black suited scumbags. I’m living for the god that inspires harmony, and lifts my fingers to dance for liberation, and pleasure, and hopeless longing. I’m living for the god of progress who shakes pieces of enlightenment from his gray beard, and swallows up the offerings of his every wounded child.
I’m living for the god of no religion,
Never saying
“God,”
For this name is tainted by old customs.
Cheapened by the misguided nature of man.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
i dont think you understand
there a demonic side to me
he lurks beneath the surface
just waiting to break free
i no longer trust myself
in making these decisions
these illusions call me out
shot me down with precision
and they're a perfect marksmen
shots only made by the best
and i'm hiding within myself
afraid of all the rest
tho this should make no sense
these shadows are my own
the perfect marksmen are false
images my mind has grown
yet here they stand
and somehow so real
seeing them spun me around
i dont know what to feel
i keep telling myself
everyone has this pain
but im faking this smile
and its really starting to wane
i force it till its back
thankful for all this
strength made from pain
hiding in the darkness
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
five o'clock on Sunday night
we down two bottles of pink ******* wine - classy
Jesus Christ applauds our dedication to his
"this do in remembrance of me" mentality
after four ******* hours of straight communion
we are one with the universe
praying only for security in something
“don't judge me,” she says “don't judge me,”
we've reached that point
we found ecstasy in dizziness - in daydreams
sure enough, we found there was
some kind of magic quality
inherent in these substances
that we were guaranteed to abuse
but it seems we must have been
the worst of marksmen
because I know we matched each other
shot for shot that night
and never once made contact
**** that
we went from being worshiped to ignored -
untouchable
like the ******* gimps of the Hindu caste system
**** Karma
what did we do to be so low?
it didn't make good sense
so we just kept drinking
because that's the only thing that did
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 1:40 AM UTC
If I was a real world king,
The assassin group at my command,
Would consist of 13 experts.
If there was an assassin's creed,
They will carry out my royal orders,
All 13 of them along with me.
So would be the deadliest group,
So would be the perfect killers,
So would be the "14 Marksmen".
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
she lives alone. from this, one can gather the things she owns. 1970s porn. she is pregnant. a week ago she went into town to pick up some new phrases. while there, she slipped into a house and beat a sleeping child. our deeds are weary not of a dog barking or of a cat hissing but of the overfed fish. my belly button is how the marksmen touch me. she thinks the child’s father followed her home. she’s about to watch the videotape.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
*The world shall fall as they fall
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends
Bring in the seraphim
Tear the pure clouds, reveal the gods above
If doubt is a stronger virtue
Then I am its paragon
Women fall at lofty feet in a harem
Gorging on peasants' spines 'till faces turn mauve
Fear is the new moral breakthrough
A scale higher than the utmost echelon
The world shall destroy as they destroy
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.
The snake bite no longer stings
Calloused as a tyrant's compassion
The purest hands do grow relentless weeds
As they laze on the filthiest plots
Kings and hearts mount to slings
Foreboding most malleable deception
Blood spills bright on their letterheads
As truth gets set by red-handed bureaucrats
The world shall burn as they burn
In their ruin, everything will follow
And so it ends.
Marksmen are wealthier than diplomats
Golden bullets to the golden rule
The trend is to laugh at our silence
The principle is to break lives not dictates
There lies no purgatory for these aristocrats
On to the vile ember cesspool
Until then, they fawn in worldly omnipotence
And not one revolts, not even conscience
The world shall end as they end
In their sceptre,everything follows
And so it goes on.*
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
i
Confectionery amour', quiet peaceful girl, flower haired gem
Whilst we maketh love to the old spinning record, eyes content;
The moon to leadeth ourn feet, bathed in chocolate fountain,
We prance as freely Galloper's, thither the desert, cool mountain
ii
I'll meeteth thee at the playground, inked in ourn red blotch,
No ticking tumultuous hand, to ruin ourn plan's, none to watch;
A private invitation, a rosey petal to surrender thine oath and vow, a seeded rightful city, conversation open and aroused
iii
Charlatan's to be naysayer's, exactly as the rest hath becometh,
Ourn cloak's to be as spiritual coat's, dashing in none repugnance
The waterside to be ourn resting residence, the pasture plain's to awaken ourn brain's, as we shalt be marksmen of lass and lad.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Love?
A word any more loaded would surely have its vessel of destruction firmly planted against the vulnerable flesh of my soul.
A tool only to be managed by the most skilled of marksmen.
Naturally every man feels a sense of entitlement when it comes to venturing into the grand shadow that love casts.
The sad reality being few ever make it out of the dark.
Somewhere beyond the gloom of our contemporary road less traveled by is the Utopian bliss of beauty and contempt.
Perfection?
No.
Never perfection, but the closest our society will ever achieve.
Beauty...
Real beauty...
Is the ability to love imperfections, and embrace them as truth.
Honesty is the true happiness.
to be honest with one's self is to be true to his fellow man.
We are as we are for reasons beyond our control, yet destiny can be persuaded by selfless acts of love and truth.
Give me your tired, your weak, and your poor, and I will show you your casualties of war.
Not a war fought on any foreign front, but an internal struggle of love for another which will always strike swiftly and blunt.
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
A baby riding in a car
On the Easter holiday
Lost his life just that quick
Cos a bullet went astray
A young girl walkin with some friends
Soon to graduate
Will not now nor will she ever
A bullet sealed her fate
What the hell is goin on
Can you give me an answer
Why do bullets **** more of us
Than heart attacks or cancer
I’ve been tryin to understand
Listener what you say
Could it be something (that was planted)
In our DNA
The ravages of the savages
Can be felt on the streets
Where innocent bystanders
Often catch the heat
From those bullet-riddled operas
That all too frequently repeat
The examples are there
For us to find
Where should I begin
Pick up any newspaper
The list just doesn’t end
Of people who’ve been slain (unnecessarily)
Must we be subjected
To the violence that we see
We too are entitled
To the pursuit of happiness
So why is it that we’re content
To settle for much less
Haven’t we buried enough
Daughters and also sons
For us to be sick and tired
Of the violence and the guns
The ravages of the savages
Can be felt on the streets
Where innocent bystanders
Often catch the heat
From those bullet-riddled operas
That all too frequently repeat
Call it an indictment
If that’s how you choose to view it
But nine times out of ten
Who are the ones that do it
In our own communities
Self-hatred runs real deep
And so we **** each other
As if walkin in our sleep
If we are the problem
Then we can be the cure
And if we put a stop to this
It won’t happen anymore
How many sad funerals
Must each of us attend
Of a beloved relative
Or a real close friend
The ravages of the savages
Can be felt on the streets
Where innocent bystanders
Often catch the heat
From those bullet-riddled operas
That all too frequently repeat
Most of us will concede
It doesn’t make no sense
What will it take for us to develop
Zero tolerance
The ravages of the savages
Can be felt on the streets
Where innocent bystanders
Often catch the heat
From those bullet-riddled operas
That all too frequently repeat
They have no right to take away
What they can’t give back
Human life should be respected
As a matter of fact
This given is ignored
By the savages in our mist
Who’d rather pull out a gun
Than fight you with their fists
Clearly they are cowards
And it’s obvious
That none of them are marksmen
Judging by how frequently they miss
Why should we be sympathetic
Though they’ll make the claim
That it was just an accident
Because they couln’t aim
Most of us will concede
It doesn’t make no sense
What will it take for us to develop
Zero tolerance
The ravages of the savages
Can be felt on the streets
Where innocent bystanders
Often catch the heat
From those bullet-riddled operas
That all too frequently repeat
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
With the blackened night,
the marksmen take sight.
No time for regret, no time for glory
this is a soldier's untold story.
Hidden in the slithering shade,
the final stage of this cascade.
They are trained without fear,
creeping closer at the front, the sides and rear.
Shots are fired, many fall,
Only one remains, he stands tall.
Three to the back, one to the head,
he falls to the ground, and was already dead.
He was unarmed with white in his fist,
a flag of purity, it was hard to miss.
Now stained with the blood of the dead,
The marksmen were silent and began to dread.
Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made...
A pause of silence for the ones who stayed.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
Little bit awkward
As we sit here in silence
When everything
Before us
Used to be nothing but violence
We'd argue and yell
Before an argument even started
Choosing words like ammo
Handing over trophies to
The biggest 'broken hearted'
We'd shoot phrases
With precision
True Marksmen who could
Think without making decisions
A game of fools
Mending love
With wrong tools
Like artists with no talent
Until our love went silent.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
He brought out the worst in me
Cruel actions and words his weapons
Ones he kept well oiled for use
Every syllable spoken in perfection
Hitting the bullseye of my patience
Bursting out a fury I long kept hidden
With a marksmen’s skills he teased out
Anger overcrowding my being like rain clouds
Bringing heavy showers of unrealistic vows
A wild gust of cruel decisions sweeping sanity away
He welcomed this flood with manic laughter
He brought out the worst in me
But
I still loved his soul
Though how cruel and selfish it truly was
Blinded by ancient kind actions
I skipped over the puddles of each storm
Hopping towards our reconciliation island
Hoping always for the sun to break out
Foolishly falling for the momentary calm
Putting the rest the rage and reality
Losing my fingers in the cords of us
Reattaching the damaged strings of trust
Dreaming of an ideality…..Us
But the truth broke in easily
In the finality of us
All that remained was nothing
An infinite of emptiness to run away from
Before it’s long tentacles pulled me in
Grief slithering into my heart
Taking full control of a shattered soul
A breathing living body
Now turned into a shell of nothingness
With sharp fingers I cut out the dead
Letting the ****** mess taint me
Until I let go with a sigh
Dusting away my disappointment
I got up
And walked away
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
Take your bullets, take your dope
and get out of town,
all you represent is crime,
living life large in pantomime
going through the motions
until you get stopped,
by a bullet or a cop,
matters not to me,
and just so you know
and hear it in clear,
bullets do not care
how tough you appear
you can bleed out through
a hole the size of your baby
finger,
a cautionary tale as recent
gun violence where I live
no innocents have been
hurt yet, but none
of you are marksmen
with a pistol! One miss
is all it will take, wake UP
and smell, the tea, we
don't need you here,
a lot of you seem to need
the hospital facilities,
let see those take tax
dollars.... pay up.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
shoot arrows with those hurtful words at me.
fire bullets with those laughs.
just know that the best marksmen never shoot at the biggest targets.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
I am not anything you say I am.
Simply because you say I am.
Some words frighten me,
Shouldn’t be used for me,
Don’t involve me.
They are things I will always search for in others,
Things I find so easily in others.
Not in myself.
They do not exist.
Though maybe I wish they did.
I am small,
protected and
unprotected.
Build up so many walls,
So many towers.
These towers come with guards.
These guards,
expert marksmen.
Half the time I feel lost and confused,
Searching for meaning and understanding….
Not searching at all.
Things just get more confusing,
Things pile on before others get resolved.
Always felt like I was doing what I was told.
Left home,
Found different.
Grew.
Now I must go back.
Take time off, but really turn time on.
This is not something meant to affect other people,
Though I’m telling myself it will.
This is something absolutely for me.
So maybe these guards, towers, walls will be removed,
Maybe I’ll find meaning, understanding, direction..
Maybe I’ll see in myself those things seen so easily in others.
Those things I’ve been told…
And so quickly, readily, easily
Denied.
I want to find them.
So I will go where ever this search takes me
And I hope some of you tag along.
But just because you’re not, doesn’t mean I’m not
Going.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An Orderly Transition of Power, They Say
Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame
That darkness does the face of earth entomb
When living light should kiss it?
-Macbeth II.iiii.9-11
On Inauguration Day there should be:
Children waving sparklers, avenues of light
High school bands and Boy Scouts in formation
Merriment along streets scrubbed clean and bright
A happy people in love with their nation
But we are given:
Soldiers, concertina wire strung between Corinthian columns, secret service, chain-link fencing, police, checkpoints, soldiers, roadblocks, secret service, rooftop marksmen, police, missile batteries, soldiers, no-go zones, secret service, lockdowns, police, lockouts, soldiers, security gates, secret service, identification checks, police, radar, soldiers, radios, secret service, body scans, police, x-rays, soldiers, sniffer dogs, secret service, permits, police, passes, soldiers, patdowns, secret service, badges, police, questions, soldiers
Fear
Why?
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 8:50 AM UTC
Any and all warmth of loves bright glow,
I have ever; or will ever know,
Has always been lost,
Though that loss has never been grave in cost,
I know the cost of sharper pains,
Of wish of death for those whom I disdain,
Those temptress arms that have come and passed,
Which yield so swift but clasp so fast,
Who have plucked my heart and soul from my chest,
Leaving me night and day of unrest, pure unyielding distress,
Of my heart and true loves plans these thieves have made such mess.
Not all fault can be pointed out for me to deliver blame,
Without a mirror which would not reflect me for shame,
For actions I have made,
The costs I thus since paid, as lovers passed then fade,
With lines drawn between one and another,
Are blurred, lost, and only in recall rediscovered.
I speak of love,
As if I have been sent such gift from high above,
As if delivered to me by heavens dove,
Was distinction of specific amour given to me and to another,
But I do not believe a connection of this nature has been found
in any I falsely call lover.
If love is delivered by Cupid's bow,
Then no gaps in my armour does that marksmen know,
And if love is bore by that at first sight, then shines truths light,
Then I think I must be blind and see nothing but darkest night,
And if still not this and only with time does love exist,
Then I think these times I must have missed,
Never laughed or danced or kissed,
And instead slept blindly throughout an age,
Leaving this chapter unwritten, blankly left is every page.
I pray to a god that does not exist that the future does me well,
Releases me to life from the knowledge; of an existing loveless hell,
That I will meet someone before the tolling of that bell,
To know a soul, who will be all my pain will need quell,
And that some heavens wings will then have saved me from what I may befall,
As into loves loving arms I will hope to fall.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
Wait one ******* minute...
Okay, I'm one of those okie doke mother ******* huh?
Waddling and quaking right in to your pitiful rouse
Marksmen can make targets out of anything
Cans, bottles, fools
On the ground
On a fence
Hurled towards oblivion
Pull!
Hope fills the beacon as it crests the ascension
Notions of survival fashioned in a free fall
-Similar Sensibilities-
Gems sought out in dirt clods
Friends amongst fiends
Love's Gemini; Lust
Truthfulness in desire
Falicy gives the sustance of Chinese food
Gorging to the brink of gastric obliteration
Satisfaction meets it's pinnacle
Where does the mountaineer go when peaks become plateaus?
You will come down too
Soon enough you will come down
- The Simplest Adages-
Up is one half of a cycle that controls us all
Every dog has it's day
Every birthday suite; a funeral tuxedo
Remember to smile big
It's the only chance you have to win
Happy victims
Mercilessness's only weakness
Clay pigeons with guts grinning
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
is it weird that i
fear my government
more than laymen
thugs and hooligans?
is it strange that i
feel my statements
make me a target
for marksmen agents?
some folks with white collars
or a rogue devoted follower
could show up and open fire
to throw opposing views
on the funeral pyre
do or die, the alt right white
some crazy guy
who's blindly semper fi
what of **** Germany
remember that?
have we all gone mad?
I'll remain faithful
only to the gracious and wise
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC