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Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.

Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there!
Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes,
taciturn miller,
night falls on you face downward, far from the city.

Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing.
I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you.
My life before anyone, my harsh life.
The shout facing the sea, among the rocks,
running free, mad, in the sea-spray.
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.

You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now.
Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses.
Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.

It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.
Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes?
Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
Hour that is mine from among them all!
Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.

Shaking of all the roots,
attack of all the waves!
My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.

Thinking, burying lamps in the deep solitude.

Who are you, who are you?
I caught fleeting glimpse
of her throughout the day,
She lingered by the water's edge,
with another group, their tale yet unsaid.
A megaphone blared brazen attitudes to the air,
A bottle of Buckfast was her chalice to bear;
She supped that viscous liqueur,
It's contents  not as dark as her charcoal hair.
By the Spanish Arch as daylight subsided, we drank
and wandered among the intoxicated.

Then the guards came
and chased us all away.

A street-party was going down in The Latin Quarter.
Tides of people made it hard to get around. Deftly,
I waded through the massive crowd
to find friendly revelers in the tavern above.
Later, across the way in our favourite pub,
She resurfaced, megaphone still going,

Her eyes spoke volumes of venturous exploits,
This night but a chapter in a tome of conquests.

Those pupils that glimmered
had something magic in them:
A soft disregard for the world
and calm anticipation.
Cameron Godfrey Mar 2013
Make me into a rainbow
To lighten the day.
Make me into the showers
That bring tulips in May.
Make me into the sunlight that helps the world thrive
Make me into the medicine that helps one survive.
Make me into the spring or the summer or fall
Make me into a megaphone
*And listen to my call
Inspiration from A M T who wrote a brilliant poem regarding what she would be if not human.
bleh Dec 2014
'i've only ever really read one poem. i, i have to admit.*  
You know, that, that one poem that everyone’s read, whatsit,
Howl by Ginsberg, 'best-minds-of-my-generation-destroyed-by-madness,-starving-hyste­rical-naked,' , yeah, that one;'
'It's just, I identify with it so strongly.' she says,
'That poem is soo me.'
It's funny how commentary on a generation 60 odd years ago come across as timeless insights..
how we learn that true spirit of rebellion and counterculture three generations ago,
  as it is taught to us by two generation ago countercounterculture academics.
but I guess, inevitably
                                         we
                                                  return,
  to those half drowned pontifications inevitably decried into transcendental truth by the onward spilling ratchet of cultural recognition;
  that sense of universal oneness generated by the unwashed ramblings of beat-generation hipsters dense innuendo in run on sentences running, running from their upper-lower-middle-class New York homes and their privilege of true vacant meaninglessness and despair,
   to those nervous tucked in shirted clean shaven scholars swooning over the same seme drugged, melancholic bearded men profussing the deepest of opaque truths only found up the furthest reaches of their own *****.
  As we push through to our lectures, the mosaic in motion of blazer wearing mac-users and mac-pac wearing blazers,
  As we hysterically interpret the formatting conditions for our reports, which could hang in the balance of whether the dreams we once had will ever be actualised,
  As we felt lost and found and found and lost at those park benches under the stars, where occasional strangers strolled by offering sessions and life-stories,
  As we paid exorbitantly to get out of our parents homes, and into tin-can flats with broken windows, absentee landlords and cracked paint only held together by all the moss, (the empowerment that is wage slavery,) for in our youth, poverty is not an ever-present pejorative, but the rite of passage to show that we are alive,
  As rituals of manhood are defined by two things and two things only; how much insomnia one can accumulate to meet insane and inane deadlines, and how much one can illuminate the walls in ***** from all the beers, spirits, cheap wines and questionable home-brews,
  As the government dismantles the human-rights commission, and we nervously attend the rallies initiated by the radicals, and the man on the megaphone calls on the crowd to chant and we can only mumble and laugh nervously at ourselves,
  And when the next speaker runs onto stage feeling the need to plead to this already nervous, placid mass that this is in-fact a PEACEFUL PROTEST, and that we are all true patriots and they insist everyone start singing the national anthem and we all look down and we again mumble, or pretend somehow not to hear them,
  and when, in this biggest independent rally around a unified cause our generation's ever seen, we have never felt so alone ,
  and isolated,  
                                  we
                                             remember,
                                                                    those earlier days,
  When we'd bleach our hair; we'd poison ourselves white, in the vain mystic hope that this was just the transition period to the time when we'd get true colour into our lives,
  Remember our wonder at the Eurocentric Asiatic television representations of the Abrahamic faiths, given transubstantiated holy revival by the medium of Saturday morning digital pastel pasture; when we were children staring excited and wide eyed into the Metatrons Fire of Sinai 'Random Almighty Mega Damage'; as Dante and the seraph class Tyrant-infused-Michael inevitably made battle with YHWH, -in the one True End,- as we grinded within the monolithic emerald obsidian halls, Mystical wonderment spilling forth from our reddened hollow eyes, at the beautiful unlimited expansive world contained within our console/consoling digital unit discs; conformally mapped and etched into the convex hull of our minds,
  Where we were gods, doing battle with every possible creature in morphospace, filleted into overpriced cards and cartridges, for which our strategies meant so much to us though none of us really understood the game,
  When we could quote verbatim every piece of dialogue in GTA2, and get concerned glances from our parents as we conjured veiled imagery of bukake-ladled innuendo which we didn't really understand until six or seven years later,
  When sexuality was a special secret club our elders and the kids in the years above came across so wise for being a member of, rather than an anti-turing test; a farcical ritual where everyone tries their best to imitate the hyper-reality of MTV while hiding the nervous feelings that this whole thing was really meant for someone other than us,
  When creating a whole new lexicon for our self-hood (be it artistic, ******, political or philosophical) felt like existential emancipation; a transcendental rebellion against the normalising identities and semantics of old, rather than an impenetrable circle-**** taxonomy,
  When one day we'd unveil a new term in some text, and it would completely change our outlook on every corner of our lives,
  Or, the next day, when we'd give up and just sit back on rolling banks, and look out at a veil of stars,
  Or the next day, when we'd wonder desperate and painfully, which of the last two was the real pursuit and which was wasted time? (Or was it this day, the day spent building an illusory dialectic between them?)
  Remember when we were in kindergarden, and you had to pass through the kitchen, -the adults zone,- to get to the toilet, and you'd feel both shame and wonderment listening in of the snippets of conversation muttered by these titanic figures; discussing abstruse issues from the newspaper in foreign yet noble tongues?
  Remember when we were teens, and every form-checking observation and question from these same adults was so painstakingly pedantically banal and asinine, that one could only respond with monosyllabic grunts and silent hysterics?
  And remember as 'young adults', when we'd inevitably entered this same dull Aristotelian world of forms, how we'd ask the same adults for advice on filling these paperworks, at once still asemic gibberish, and at once the fine-print that contained and predicted our lives?
  Remember when our dreams for the future were not bounded by the economy of our grade point averages and just how much debt we were willing to incur
                                …
I've seen the best minds of my generation climb into pre-packaged little boxes; and pay through the teeth for the privilege of doing so.  
  Akin to a 'Howl' they call it? Our cry for selfhood? What a scream.
It's not even a cry. Barely a whimper.
More of a zombified groan, completely aware our intrepid Journey of Self is just a pricey guided tour. (Tv Ad's static commodified existential emancipatory platitudes; 'your place in the world' / 'well it's my place and it's my time' urgh.)
And so we march asleep; all lame all blind.
  Trudging through the mind-fields; arguing, unravelling the semantic distinctions between the empty boundaries and the boundaries of emptiness.
  Transcribed down for essay deadlines,  /  assessing our lives trajectory as dead lines,
Becoming increasingly aware,
  We are not the living beings, the dasein, the Übermenschen being actualised; we are the machinery through which the institutions, the factories, the markets and education facilities actualise themselves.
  (While the only acceptable language we can breathe in opposition to these ratcheting pedagogical machines is the lexicon they provide us..
  ('oh, you hate systemic neoliberal alienation; the deestablishment of ontological anthropocentrism? Tell me more about the esoteric uselessness of academic culture.') bluh.)

But

       the more we follow those phantom images we built of ourselves,
the more we become aware they are but sirens; hypnotic dreamlike figures luring us to our doom,
  and as this awareness dawns; and the cognitive dissonances and schizophrenia grows,
       We


                                just try to keep calm and carry on regardless.

Can we really claim the arrogance of having a better path?
The conceit that there's a better cliff we should be guiding ourselves to to top ourselves off?
I don't know,
I reaally
really
just don't know.
..i think i started out with a theme here, but it mostly devolved into venting.
      i finished another year of university recently. i'm not really sure to what extent higher education's given me perspective on life, and what extent it's simply annihilated what little i had.
   from my experiences of student culture, i feel our generation views itself as abandoned by the world, but to good for it anyway. We aren't the bohemians or beatniks or hippies or punks; our drinking and drugging ourselves to death isn't a counter-cultural high-minded rebellion. It's more a prideful self destructive egotism, a self derisive narcissism.   or something. i dunno.
  whether it's from cowardice or a more genuine scepticism, i certainly have no idea what i am (or ought to be) doing in/with/about this world.
NeroameeAlucard Jul 2021
A megaphone is a device
Used to amplify sound, most commonly speech
Into the ears of the masses gathered around
Usually in an act of protest.
It's an electrically powered portable amplifier
But I don't possess one.
Not yet, anyway. But I know someone who does.
Someone who's shouts of frustration cause pity and anger at the same time.
The person I'm living with, isn't that divine.
I'm stuck between sympathizing and bewildering blind fury
Her condition is not through fault of her own but surely
She can stop taking her frustrations and misplaced aggression out on me.
I wish I knew how to stop her pain, stop her anger.
I wish I could do that without it destroying me.
And, mother I doubt you'll read this but on the off chance that you do.
I love you. But I don't know what else that I can do.
I'm learning to carry a house hold on my shoulders, and I can't do that if you keep taking crowbars to my knees.
But, I fear it might be too late that that fact is what you'll see.
I am the unnoticed, the unnoticable man:
The man who sat on your right in the morning train:
The man who looked through like a windowpane:
The man who was the colour of the carriage, the colour of the mounting
Morning pipe smoke.
I am the man too busy with a living to live,
Too hurried and worried to see and smell and touch:
The man who is patient too long and obeys too much
And wishes too softly and seldom.

I am the man they call the nation's backbone,
Who am boneless - playable castgut, pliable clay:
The Man they label Little lest one day
I dare to grow.

I am the rails on which the moment passes,
The megaphone for many words and voices:
I am the graph diagram,
Composite face.

I am the led, the easily-fed,
The tool, the not-quite-fool,
The would-be-safe-and-sound,
The uncomplaining, bound,
The dust fine-ground,
Stone-for-a-statue waveworn pebble-round
Jules Jul 2016
it is grief and rage all at once.

and there are never any words for this—
simply a scream,
a howl,
an outrage.

in this I have never felt more helpless:
my apology will never be enough,
but staying quiet will mean silence,
and silence means consent,
and no
I do not consent to any more of this injustice,
this farce,
this outright lie.

there have been enough stolen lives.

my love,
my black brothers and sisters for which there are no words:
I am so sorry.
you will always have me in solidarity.

I feel as if I can do so little,
but lead the way.

send me your voices, send me your battle cry:
and I will do my best to be your megaphone, your ally,
if need ever be.

and my love,
these children,
good men and women who have been lost to this earth,
who this earth does not deserve:
I am so sorry
but you deserve far more than my grief.

may you find justice. may you find home.
may you find rest; may you rest in power.
say their names.
Carrie Ross Nov 2011
This is a poem for Rachel Corrie. I am not religious, and a far cry from spiritual, but I refuse to imagine Rachel Corrie insentient and six feet under, slowly amalgamating with the soil encasing her. Before her death, Rachel Corrie said “I still really want to dance around to Pat Benatar and have boyfriends and make comics for my co-workers. But I also want this to stop.” In the words of contemporary Palestinian poet Suheir Hammad “God has a better imagination than all of us combined” in either God's words or my own, I will not imagine in/on the same ground in/on which I maybe soon will be and more words from Suheir “What do I tell young people about non-violence when they can see for themselves how even orange bright and megaphone loud and cameras and US citizenship will not stop your ******?” what do I tell young people/anyone even myself about “non-violence” when every single thing I've seen presenting itself/perhaps even masquerading as “non-violence” has been in my face and /rude/harsh/unavoidable and most of all, violent? I do not believe in God and humanity is pushing it's luck, but I believe in Rachel Corrie. This is for Rachel;*

I should study a she-wolf's prose
she wanted to write about death
but life would frequently
weasel and wheedle it's way in
there’s an overhanging image
a smaller
yet
infinitely larger
organism
continuously broached
by each word
I only want to study
a caterpillar’s motion
backward/forward /onward
across arms/legs
of this deer/dear
[her] surname/
[my] given name/
separated by [semi/totally] circular VOWels
***** blond hair
dirtied by dust /
rubble /
rhyme /reason/
whatever/ in compliance
with a rep/RESENT/ative democracy
several shades lighter
literally
figuratively
whiter
than she
need no permission
pat benatar
would/should croon
to your moves
every
boy and girl friend
i will/may/have/had
should be yours
entomo/insecto/[social] phobias
I never would’ve said so
I never
would’ve/
could’ve
told the caterpillar

to go
Tabitha Lee Feb 2020
Joy-For King and Country

Lately, I've been reading, watching the nightly news
Don't seem to find the rhythm, just wanna sing the blues
Feels like a song that never stops
Feels like it's never gonna stop

Gotta get that fire, fire, back in my bones
Before my heart, heart, turns into stone
So somebody please pass the megaphone
I'll shout it on the count of three
One, two, three

Oh, hear my prayer tonight, I'm singing to the sky
Give me strength to raise my voice, let me testify
Oh, hear my prayer tonight, 'cause this is do or die
The time has come to make a choice

And I choose joy
Let it move you, let it move you, let it move you
Yeah, I choose joy
Let it move you, let it move, let it move you
Yeah-eh, back when I was young, my eyes were full of life
But now that I am older, I live at the speed of light
Feels like the cycle never stops
Feels like it's never gonna stop

Gotta get that fire, fire, back in my bones
Before my heart, heart, turns into stone
So somebody please pass the megaphone
I'll shout it on the count of three
One, two, three

Oh, hear my prayer tonight, I'm singing to the sky
Give me strength to raise my voice, let me testify
Oh, hear my prayer tonight, 'cause this is do or die
The time has come to make a choice

And I choose joy
Let it move you, let it move, let it move you
Yeah, I choose joy
Let it move you, let it move, let it move you
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of night
Oh, with You by my side, I'm stepping into the light

I choose joy
Let it move you, let it move, let it move you
I need that joy, joy, joy, joy
Down in my heart, down in my heart to stay
I need that joy, joy, joy, joy
Down in my heart, down in my heart to stay

And I choose joy
Let it move you, let it move, let it move you
Oh, I choose joy
Let it move you, let it move, let it move you
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of night
Oh, with You by my side, I'm stepping into the light
I choose joy
Go let it move you, go let it move you, go let it move you

I need that joy, joy, joy, joy
Down in my heart, down in my heart to stay
I need that joy, joy, joy, joy
Down in my heart, down in my heart to stay
Hey its true!!!!
JOJO C PINCA Nov 2017
PWEDING MALA SUTLA O MAGASPANG NA TELA,
GANYAN ANG MGA ALA-ALA,
MINSAN MALALA MINSAN NAWAWALA.
MGA PAGTITIWALA AT PANINIWALA,
LAHAT AY DAPAT NA MASALA,
GANITO HINAHABI ANG HIBLA NG MGA ALA-ALA,
PARA MERON KANG MAPALA.
NAGBABAG ANG DALAWANG KUMAG,
MGA KUTONG LUPA NA PURO HAMPAS LUPA.
HAMBUGAN ANG DAHILAN NG UMBAGAN,
PAREHONG DUGUAN MATAPOS ANG BUGBUGAN,
ITO ANG HIBLA NG KABATAAN.
SA ESKUWELA KAILANGAN MO RIN MAGING MAKUWELA,
KUNG AYAW MO’NG MAGMUKHANG GUMAMELA.
HINDI LAHAT NG MATALINO AY PINO,
MERON DIN MAASIM NA PARANG PIPINO,
AT HINDI PORKE BOBO AY PARA NG LOBO,
GANITO ANG BUHAY ESTUDYANTE.
UMIIBIG HABANG UMIIGIB?
PWEDE NAMAN SABAY,
DEPENDE SA ARTE,
KAILANGAN LANG NG DISKARTE.
WALA PANG INTERNET SA TINDAHAN NI ALING NANNETH,
WALANG CELLPHONE PERO MAY MEGAPHONE,
PWEDE **** ISIGAW NA MAHAL MO S’YA.
KUNG MALUPIT KA EDI LUMAPIT KA,
KUNG TORPE KA EDI SUMULAT KA.
GANITO ANG LABANAN NOONG WALA PANG FB AT CP,
HIBLA NG KASIBULAN.
GRADUATE NA,
KAYA TRABAHO NA,
APLAY DITO APLAY DOON,
WALANG HUMPAY ANG PAGSISIKAP.
HAPAY-KAWAYAN,
KAHIT SAAN SUMASAMPAY.
HIBLA NG BUHAY EMPLEYADO.
TILA ITLOG NA ESTRALYADO NANG MAGING PAMILYADO.
PAKIRAMDAM KO BUO NA AKO,
SINTAMIS NG KAHEL ANG DULOT NG DALAWANG ANGHEL,
ITO HIBLA NG KASALUKUYAN.
Causticji May 2015
Death descends like the statement of a credit card;
life goes on in eight columns, sometimes six,
dropping out should have been an option, instead my
world is turning pages while I am just sitting here
listening to atrophy whisper through a megaphone:
“It’s better to fade away than to burn out, let
champagne supper turn to bile by breakfast, bark up a
fake plastic lemon tree till she hurls pomo grenades at you.”
The streetlife serenade is recklessly tempting,
in the club the girls in ***** shirts come and go,
talking of Felu, Neru, Derri… da, what inertia!
Sitting in a club with so many fools(,) playing to rules,
Hell is a blank generation with no vacancy,
I’m doubting Thom: meeting people isn’t easy,
Them clones in rubber souls from fab India
try to impale me right next to the paintbox,
In she walks, head going nowhere close to the oven,
eyes me like a Pisces riding shotgun on a WAG,
says growing older in the rain ought not be done all alone.
Bring on the moonshine, dancing days are here again!
Happiness was Scotch Mist, now it’s suddenly a goal,
It’s past AM on a holiday, do I wanna know if this
isn’t, like always, just un-certain platonish bromance?
Or will she journey with me till the end of the night?
Optimism is fleeting, afraid to commit, tends to elope,
Pray that she lingers long enough: I need a feel-good poem.
There’s a restaurant at the end of the universe,
I’ve heard the well-done steak they serve is actually rare
but their awesomesauce can make us live forever,
we can make it there in time if we slide away right now,
and if in the morning we don’t know what to do,
I’ll toast the bread, I’ll make the bed, she can make my day.
Douglas Beights Feb 2014
Get off my porch,
it's mine.
It was mine when I got here,
It is mine when I go to work,
It is mine when I go to the movies,
It is mine when I go to the liquor store.
When I stumble into the house after a long night of promiscuity,
It's mine.
When I shoot a man in the head, and place my hands on his ****** corpse,
It's mine.
You can have it when I'm gone, though.
rsc Sep 2014
Is this a power hierarchy?
Does our dueling footwork
Convince us to
Lock into some sort of
Competitive symmetry,
Twisting into your
Mashed potato minefield with
Doo *** , doo dad laden
Dancing shoes?

Gimme your
Electronic sympathy, baby,
Infiltrate the airwaves with
Piercing eye contact and
Tremourous finger tip brushes.

Is my informality coming through?
Have I communicated with
Unlocked elbows and
Megaphone ears that not only
My body but universe
Lives here and in you?

Orient yourself to me,
I task while asking you to
Take off your straight jacket and
Stay a while. Unlock your
Pandora 's box so your
Monsters can meet mine,
Mirrored in different shades of
Shock and shame, operating under
Varied hues of the same name.

Lean into me, let your
Shoulders slender and shimmy to a
Tenderizing touch, the
Objects under your skin collapsing
To the 4/4 timed battle
Between form and perception.

The ingestion of the
Metaphor is the message, and
The tongue regards a tune
Differently than a taste.

Face symmetrical, nostrils work,
The blooming waste of consumption
Centered on the top right corner of
Your cheekbones.
I can't help but grab the
Slight upswing in the tone
Of your voice and spin it around;
Let's swing, darling.
I'd like to take your descriptors
On a date to the dance floor.

How long can we keep this up until meaning has waltzed out the door?
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.

We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.

Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
  
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.

The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.

After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.

At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.

We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.

If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.

*December,  2006
The story is fantasy but Henry was not.  He was my great, great grandfather and fought for the Union in the Civil War and really did have a medicine wagon.  My grandfather loved to tell stories about Henry. I am SOOO sorry I never met Henry which would have been really tough since he gave it up in 1899.  I am sure he had a great line of bull and I am doing my best to carry on the family tradition.
barnoahMike Jan 2011
_ Little leonard  Lion,  decided to attend the Upcoming Town meeting  with an Open mind about the Subjects that were to be Discussed.   Many Times in the Past,   Little Leonard along with others of his Thinking,  Especially,  Anthony   Ant and Roxanne Roach,   Went to the Town Meetings with the Attitude of "Cautious-Listening"..    MANY Times the Town Meetings,  conducted by the Town Upper-Layers and their *Chief,  Wendall Waglips,  had NOT stuck entirely to issues ,  BUT rather Modified them.    SO,  that the Credits due to the *Proper Provider,   were Instead directed to  Themselves !   Waglips and his Upper Layers had announced the Upcoming meeting would be a *Revelation of NEW Ideas and Plans !   Needles to  say,  Leonard Lion, Anthony Ant and Roxanne Roach Could Hardly wait !   As they sat on the edges of their seats,   to hear the Proclamations  that Wendall and the Upper Layers would be *SWEETLY*  offering up to the Audience of " Fully Attentive"  Listeners .    Waglips approached the Podium of Announcement,  Stood behind it,  Grabbed both sides at the top,   Leaned forward toward the microphone,With a Self made Smile and his Attitudinal  Voice,   Began the Ritual of Proclamations;   #1= A Decree you will accept with Glee.   #2= When I Condone and accept it as the Known.  #3= Should you disagree,  DON'T bring it to me !   #4= What is Laid out,  ACCEPT it or get Out.   #5= The LAWS are on the Walls in the Halls,,*BUT*DON'T Loiter in the Halls.    Waglips continued His Finale ,   "These are for Your benefit and I am sure You agree,  That each of you they will fit !    These NEW rules we've SPOKEN for your  Wellbeing  for the Residents of this Town !      __Leonard,  Anthony and Roxanne Looked at each other and glanced around at the  2500 attendees !  As a Megaphone was Placed in Leonards hand!  He Repeatedly Shouted out !   "JOIN ME IN THE HALLS "...     So, whats in store for those who stayed in their seat and "DID-NOT" heed the Boldness of the VOICE ,calling them to the Halls  ?
copyright @2011     barnoahMike                   Mike Ham
Akemi Aug 2018
out of arms
out of lungs
out of head
it’s an effort to be dragged
catch beneath the lock
where i tore my lid three years ago
each descent returning
spit from the cavernous body of marx

an empire of glass
the wretched of centre city
mop the open wound of 24/7 affairs
*** and grease stained upholstery
apologising for everyone else's mess

it’s blasé-faire
it’s pro-choice
corporate megaphone through the airwaves
distilled into the perfect idiot subject
enjoy life
enjoy life
enjoy life
enjoy life
enjoy life :)
the happiness industry would have you believe that all the ills of the world will be solved through positive thinking :))
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
that's what i found so problematic in
understanding thought,
but concerning the idea of a flux
i found the stasis point in it,
it was better translated by the cartesian basis
of inquiry, i can't negate thinking
because the ontology of thought
is primarily synthetic to pass the time,
rarely analytic unless professional,
so i dropped the a priori / a posteriori
compounding crap and came up with
good enough reasons for cognitive analysis
and cognitive synthesis...
i can relax now, i guess...
so wrote something in a hardcover by horace
to remind me of the origins of biases and bases...
kindergarden swing tactic and pendulum continuum,
i hate to break it to you, but my thought
has no megaphone in the 18th century,
but my words have a place in the 22nd century
given the 21st century provide the images
i'm bound to decipher...
i guessed the asian girl was a robot...
and subsequently i thought all those things
i wrote in the poem prior...
imagination is hard to insist with regards to successful
usage... it uses no patent geometry or
skeletal phoneticism of reminder...
you will not remember a picasso to say something...
but i bet you'll remember an m to utter the sound
em em mmm mumble, funny how it works.
we're not in art gallery... we're just buying
potatoes for home-made *****...
we're living under martial law in poland
before the anticipated soviet invasion and we're happy...
not like now... the silicon god of the microchip
chopped our limbs and we lost the amazon
green for london grey cement and cemetery...
we're here, there's not point poking fun at my grimace
with a flashlight.
so losing the timing of knowledge... the spacing
of knowledge is an onion metaphor for a working
car engine: drilling team in arabia,
the pirates of somalia,
the cargo ships from scandinavia,
the flirty whipping rich boy scouts asking for
a next **** mojito of fever...
well... i did the opposite to english...
i allowed "*****" words into the vocabulary i use
rather than allow dirt images to weave a spiderweb
enclosing the spider...
i rather censor images than censor words...
poor tactic to censor images...
sometimes a nibble of sadism will penetrate
this whole provision of safe *****,
censor "*****" word usage and you'll only
allow dirtier than the ***** words to enter via
images... my god... you must be a sensitive cubist!
we'll allow **** cannibalism and squares...
but we won't allow the representative of
seasonal cannibalism of spring eating autumn
with the tetragrammaton's H & H (twinned temperament
in coordinate starting vector 0ºC
then donning the appropriate clothes while
the trees change their muscles leaving the skeletal exposed),
or acknowledging that there's only a definite
capital delta / y in writing -
we synthesised the square the circle the triangle...
we got π and pythagorean equation...
we gave these shapes the thesis categorisation of scalpel...
we cut with them...
but then they cut us... mathematicians committing
suicide with drills over the π-continuum
that's anti-trigonometric surrounding anti-matter...
but as society goes... courtesy in speech
doesn't necessarily provide courtesy and chivalry
in action...
censor the words ****... and then watch the emerging show
that's antonymous to the majority of time
spent in commute: dumb gloom & grey fancy
to create a rainbow like a shaman.
Sal Lake Jan 2013
It's cranberry sauce
That’s it, I’ve done it
My brain is mush
Heartbeat through a megaphone
I’m pulling on my pant legs
Tightening my veins around my bones
& I think the thermometer in my brain needs reprogrammed

I. Now I’m a cozy embryo
With cotton in my marrow
Last of my breed so the bad men can’t see me
I’m sitting here in my own bullet train
Flying through metro lights at night
With coruscating sodium vapor
Vibrating in my peripheries
My appendages do not exist

II. We are the carbon monoxide leak
We are the cold coaxing hypothermia
Still trying to define the agony of existence
& Beauty of meaning through definition

III. “If you don’t get old, you die”
Shut up & pay your taxes old man
I can stay young for as long as I want
I am healthy
I am eternal
I’ve got all the cotton in the world

IV. I wonder if all sentient life deals
With the same paranoia as humans do
It’s the reason we never shut up
& hold love for vague idols

V. I like smiles
& I like sadness

VI. What does loneliness see when it chases its
Shadow?
You’ve got a mouse in your hand that cannot know that you are
Sentient.
You are a wooden giant from outer space that burned upon
Entry.
Where does apathy sleep when it has had too much to
Eat?
Why can’t you see your house from three million miles
Away?
If you need help breathing then you deserve to die in
Appalachia.
If I lie here long enough under enough blankets, then
I'm not real
Is it possible to save up enough money to avoid humans
Altogether?

Just like that, the spiral ceases
We were packed
Like sardines
Wrapped in butcher paper
Blind night vision
Then deer in headlights
Kissing the pavement
Mutually requited
Uninterest
Samuel Apr 2011
Open the book and
         BAM!!!
Right in the face
Screams Chapter One

"SHE STOOD BY THE WINDOW
AS RAIN DRENCHED HER POODLE"

Begin to wonder
Why her poodle is outside
Is it a punishment?
Is there a jail poodle among us?

The megaphone changes hands
And Chapter Two asserts

"WELCOME TO THE RAT RACE
FRIENDS, BE SURE TO PICK UP
YOUR CAP AND GOWN"

At the door, you wonder
Only to conclude that this
Book is nonsensical, surely
Or at least not for the
Faint of heart
Cynthia Jean Apr 2017
A sip of stillness
listening
for
God moments...

relax in the warmth
of the "felt"
love of Christ.

He widens my vision
to distinguish
real importance

transfusing me
with His Power
in my quest
for that Pearl
oh, yes,
the Pearl of greatest price.

Revitalize my love
for God
renew my thirst for His Word
empower my prayers
with wordless adoration..........

Overwhelmed
the inhibition over
the desert lay behind
and off I am
into the land of longing.....

I do not
cannot
speak
no words are necessary
too paltry would they be.

The dust
that becomes the diamonds
sprinkles
and comes forth.

Like the water lily
I am basking in the sun
of His Presence.

I soak up His Love
and
His Tenderness.

In this ecstasy
words
become
unnecessary.

Pain
God's megaphone
through which He speaks
to a deaf world.
(Which has shut Him out.)

To give joyous hospitality
we need silence

a simple, prayerful silence
belongs
to everybody

in our pousitinia*
we desire
to hear from our God
that still small Voice
the fulfilling
...........

I will lead her
into the desert
and tenderly speak
to her

at a loss
the Spirit intercedes for us
with sighs
too deep
for words *


inexpressible longings
God alone
understands.

Cj  April 30, 2017
* pousitania- desert
**Hosea 2:14
***Romans 8:26
Matthew Bridgham Feb 2015
reading your poems

this website provides a lovely service
giving the unspoken a megaphone
(even though it's set to one)

many of you are young
thoughts about lost love
about who's who to you

it doesn't get easier, but
at least you can write here
feel safe, loved, famous

like the lust you lost
these pages will fade
a burning candle in a sea
of misplaced memories

so here you are
reading my poem
didn't have to
but did
It's here! It's here! One of the Best
And Brightest Days
Now's the Time to rev-up our Ways.


That Glazing Star, which spits the
Rays
Shone brightly through Helios, the
Highest Display.


Beaches un-roll their sleek-forming sands
As Pools de-frost their blue-tanned waves.
Swimmers do dive, and enjoy the Save
In Iberia's Coast rescue in Grand.


There are many Events in
This Hot-Baste Holiday
Worry not; For it will slowly
Pass Away
About a month-two - quill, quite awhilst
Just enough for me to produce
More Words in-rhyme.


Writing on Holidays must always be fun
For Experiences like these, pressed
Under the Sun
Tram-Tracked Thoughts, which does
Hurt to remember
Will be preserved - thanks to November.


Family, Friends, Extensions and Strangers
There the Bunch starts to get all blokey
Boring Concepts, birth these Megaphone Chaps
You world prefer to dance on their laps.


Maybe what I said meant something else
Those Words of mine touched Heart and felt
Such gradual boredom - in time I agree
For tunnelling Facts, with Evidence plead.


Nevertheless, let the Holidays sing
And let our Lives live that Full Extract.
Be Happy, Gay and Humble in Kind
For once the Headmaster whistles, you'll
Have a Sortie ahead.
Rainbow Nov 2012
Today I woke in the  d e p t h s  of the ocean.
I opened my eyes.
It was like they were closed.
Thick, seeping, cold, black  d a r k n e s s  ,
   forcibly embracing me from behind
I opened my mouth to scream.
It was like my vocal chords had been  c u t  .
Bubbles of air popped desperately out of my mouth
   empty, useless, oxygen
I moved my arms.
They were heavy as pale sacks filled with thousands of metal beads,
    sludging around in the  a b y s s  
I listened.
The silence was so loud it screamed my thoughts into a head-shaped megaphone.
I felt my heart pound out every painful  b e a t
I was shrinking with the pressure,
    pressing down on me like a wine-press on all sides,
    turning my skin into  t e a r s
Emotions picked at my bones like little silver scavenger fish,
    blind to truth and light
I fell to my knees.
Everything was slow,
    slowing and slowing
    the more I wanted it to go
    faster and faster
Sediment of history, ashes, feces,  d e a t h  ,
   crumpled at my knees
I cried.
Too bad the tears are invisible,
    blending into the salty atmosphere
    with no recognition to be found
A shadowy  b l a c k  form rested on the floor in front of me.
I stared at it,
   a sense of dreadful familiarity
The  c a r c a s s  of something once beautiful and living,
   rotting
   decomposing
   fading
   fed on by the bottomest of the bottomest creatures of the ocean

E m p t y . Carcass.

It's the shadow of the future of my soul,
  dying at the  b o t t o m  of the ocean,
  what I can become down here while refusing to ackowledge truth and love
I breathed.
And oxygen rushed in my nose,
   fell down my throat
   embraced my lungs
   soaked into my muscles
   rubbed my heart
Was I  f r e e  ?
Suddenly I realized what I should've been hating all along,
   the cold
   the darkness
   the weight
   the chosen death of my soul
But I had a choice...I  s w a m
Up and up, moving my arms in new, synchronized dance,
   reaching for the brightest light
   for my own water sunrise
And as the warmth stroked my face,
   the light burned my eyes,
   my fingertips  b r o k e  the surface
I took my first life breath.
And I saw your face.
Robert Guerrero Mar 2013
Mother why
Father why
Why do you turn your backs to me
Why can't you look me in the eyes
So much distance in this family
Mother, Father
Why have you abandoned me
Was I not a good enough son
Have I not tried hard enough
To show you I want to make you proud
This pressure is too much
Causing so much distance
All in an instance
You refuse to acknowledge my pain
You refuse to grasp the concept
That I am killing myself
That I am drowning in depression
And Mother, Father
I can't take it anymore
I am sorry
But this **** has to end
So much distance
All in an instance
So quick to deny me
The luxury of my youth
Have I not exceeded the others
I can't be the only one
To prove to you
You have not failed us
I can't take the yelling
I can't take the fighting
I can't take the constant cutting
I have scars from the years
Of trying to survive
But I am 17 now
And I am making this decision
To solve the problem
With a permanent solution
I have become so depressed
I have become so horse
From years of trying to make you hear me
I just want to be acknowledged as your son
Not your ******* slave
Mother, Father just shut the **** up
And listen to me for the first time
Go ahead and say your favorite line
"When are you going to listen to us?"
Maybe when you listen to me for a change
I am still ******* human
No matter how much I wish I wasn't
I feel dead inside because of you
So much distance
And it happened all in an instance
I can't take the separation anymore
Father, your always gone
You barely saw me grow up
Everything I learned as a man
Was by my own doing
Or by another man that took me under his wing
Mother, you always ***** at me
Even for the simplest things
I have watched as you changed
And you can't cope with the fact
That I hate you for it
That I have become a man
That I have decided to leave
So much distance
No one hears my calls for help
Even with a megaphone to my lips
Even with it posted all over the internet
I can't seem to find comfort
I have nothing left
All because you never gave me anything
Worth actually caring for
I didnt need the material things
I needed your love and compassion
Something neither could obviously give
And it caused so much distance
I have no relationship with either of you
So I bid you both farewell
I can't take this
I need a home
Not a place to sleep
I need a sanctuary
A place of peace and solace
Something you obviously cannot give
You both are unhappy
Causing me to be even more miserable
You cannot help me with my depression
You can't offer me anything but materials
And I don't want them
I want a Mother and Father
That can try to understand me
But I won't receive that in this life
So I am leaving
Due to so much distance
In this family
I hope you get to read this
Even if it is after
I scatter my brains all over the wall
Or get emancipated and move far away from you
I hope no one can relate to this :(
Nicole Paton Sep 2014
My imaginary friend climbs into bed with me and whispers in my ear every time I try to sleep. We dress in night-time: pull on black stockings, snap them around half-moon thighs.

We ladder the sky
and splinter our spines.

There are things we don't talk about (because we are the gaps between reality that still believe in selkes and Cornish piskies)
but for years we have been panning for dreams.

Doubt burns like fuse-wires but God sometimes freezes the electricity.
She crosses her fingers when she promises to believe. (That's the bargain). She talks to Him each hour
but He never replies
and she is so used to being doted on.

We pretend we are dead.
Just for tonight.

She doesn't think she matters:
mourning for the moon - her halo of humidity.
She traces the clouds' edges with highlighter.

I balance her morning-massacre mind with the inaugural thrum of a threatening migraine. I am not used to her megaphone chest and she forces our Scorpio symphony down my throat like an over-active heartbeat. (That's what frightens God).

She told me not to stick quills to my back,
said the weight of wings would only weigh me down.
Death-throws May 2015
Yell a  little louder, I dare you
Your heart is a megaphone set to loud let it bleat its message
to  the crows and crowds alike

Your mind is a violin, sitting like porcelain  in a satin palace
Singing a somber tone to its audience of no one,
so alone.

Your spirit is a caged stalion
ready to rare, flash its teeth, grip its hind legs and stare

But in my arms you are  a puppet
so warm and soft
I have trouble believing how much you must cost

because the wears you fetch and sell have amassed no fortune
and the hearts you keep in jars have long since stopped beating

move on with me,
skip town, come dance around
free as yetis,
and just as likely to exist,

my presence unkown to you now
will be the dowry on which our lives will finnally start
And in your eyes, I might finnaly exist
Sam Temple Mar 2014
impetuous ******* braying at blooming roses
chosen one flowing stream like into view
truth adjectively curtailed
so as to prove useless theory
researching hypnotherapy in lue of  information
unpresented speeches sit dusty, shelved
lacking interested parties
showboating cowboy quoting comic books
gazes into starless night skies
pollution fills the space
particulates dance, unencumbered
free to display each nuance of wind movement
air currents placate emaciated youths
as the soft breezes are the only comfort in this new world
globalized idealism creating pop-culture idolatry  
faceless masses praying to the media outlets
begging for entertainment and indoctrination
as the pain of thinking for oneself hurts too badly
corroded pineal glands beg for rebirth
injecting the need for fresh green vegetables into the minds
of the McDonaldized populace
showing glimpses of traditional values
based on equality and love
a low rumble creeps up from the bowels
buildings tremble and windows rattle
howls of insane laughter pour over the people
like the biblical flood
love?
equality?
fools notions or the games of little children
twice dubbed voice over auto tuned and through a megaphone shouts out
deafening the society it rules
we killed the hippies with ****
ruined the idealists with animal rights
and stopped the liberals
with cash payments
we have won
Mariam Nov 2012
You must think your something special
As you rampage around the office
A raging bull on parade
A one woman show
Tearing through flesh with your
Pointy devil horns.

The sound from your throat
Is kin to a screeching hyena
Holding a megaphone
To its rotting stoma.
And the expression on your face
Reminds me of a rabid baboon
With wicked indigestion
Locked in a steaming sauna.

It makes me sick to
Kiss your flat, shapeless ***
And muster a semi-genuine smile
With that grotesquely arranged expression
You call a greeting, reflected in my
Eyes every tortured morning
Your 7am demands rain down on me.

Too soon, my pet
I will be leaving this place
Shedding the protective clothing
Ive worn to this hazardous waste
disposal site, you call 'your office'
And the toxicity of your
cruel, malicious comments will evaporate
With the rays of a golden sun.

But you, my pet
Will be left with the gray stormy clouds
You attract to all who are around you
Pouring, and hailing down the **** storm
You pathetically call, your life.
Harry J Baxter Jan 2014
percussion pounds painfully pleasant
boom ba dum boom
there is a certain rhythm
to the way people speak
skip across the plains of this globe
and you’ll hear it
at times when I am at my most idle
I can find my hands
going rat tat tat rat
we listen to hip hop
the scratching sound of a needle drop
enough to catch the breath at the top of the path
making your heartbeat stop
I always fancied guitars
strumming your pain with my fingers
but instead i found that words
pop pop pop
out of my mouth
like faulty machine gun fire
I’ll be your rhythmic drum for hire
waiting at the tail end
of all your punch lines
ba dum tish
angry kids pound graphite graffiti onto their desks
which say things like
SOS
Mike was here
School *****
for a good time call X Y and Z
make me an alarm clock
tick tocking in the corner
like your personal circadian metronome
see, people like we
don’t need a megaphone
we just open our mouth
when we knock our messages out
and let them find a place to call their own
a home for the percussionist
Matt Proctor Feb 2014
they packed the town into a big box
and shipped it to southeast ohio
they packed bryan adams into a box
and shipped it to southeast asia
they packed the baby into a box
and shipped it to madonna

drawn up with a silver pen
the EPZs jurisdiction
the cease fires declaration
and the stockyards reopen for business

the hundred thousand leaves shrouding
the white house roar
like a crowd, like a nation
a few man's hands
shake that sound
like snake's tails rattling
into a megaphone

the heavy metal band pleads self-defense.
they just play music. that's all they do
they're not protesting
except in a vague way
against everything,
they're not sure what
perhaps the chaotic volume
of their early adolescence

a child bent around a pen
is told to count the lima beans again
he counted too fast
a snarling dragon pulls up
and he rides, concluding
in a sorcerer's castle constructed
of speedy fretwork and overbearing tablature

the card game made us
wizards, frankly, and we enjoyed it
more than being what we were
I throw the dice and the king's head
tumbles with them into a basket

a burmese girl sews the silhouette
of a man performing
a feat not meant for man
into the side of a shoe that will
wing you to heaven if
heaven is as high
as a slam dunk. boys
in a park joust styrofoam swords
a hand is folded
behind the back to signify its heroic
loss in battle. it is regrown momentarily
to dunk a chicken mcnugget.
in another park across town
boys no longer ****
each other for their shoes.
jay z is in a booth with warren buffett
and jerry seinfeld at daniel

they are saving the galaxy

the only one we have to save
which nobody lives in anymore
the forest is off in endor
the snow belongs to hoth

a boy fights a war
in an afghan marketplace
through his television set


in hd and widescreen
it's practically photorealisitic
the guns sound authentic
in 5.1 digital surround

another boy fights the exact same war
he wishes it did not look so real

the internet, our new planet

i shut the computer down
404: I am a file no longer to be found
Madonna, Terrorism, Bryan Adams, Michael Jordan, Call of Duty, Outsourcing, Politics, Ohio, LARP, Math, Seinfeld, Chicken McNuggets
david badgerow Nov 2013
i woke up in a place where white girls
don't wear socks and she tickled the small
of my back with her icicle toes under the sheets

now the bulge of a small animal
is confronting fear in the form of
one loving glance

i was not poetic enough
until i lifted you from behind and
set you on a cloud

you pushed me towards a megaphone
and i announced you to the world, saying
she's a wild dove

and the wind pushed back
the lapels of my jacket and
you kissed me on the collarbone
without fear and then we
doubled up in laughter
like two souls tossing in hell,
on a grill
JJ Hutton May 2010
you bought a megaphone so god could hear your cries.
you stole many a writer's pen, because you liked the taste of ink.
you broke your own heart gently for the ability to relate.
you sharpened your teeth on the spines of an old boyfriend and dusty books
written by dead men.
you are here to win.

i broke the cross around your neck and called it false advertising.
i covered my writings and body with gasoline for the thrill.
i picked the scabs on my heart because it's a bore to mend.
i strengthened my hide by digging a bed for myself in the warm moonlight,
dead men,
the best company to choose.
they don't judge,
and
they're cool with my decision to lose.

you created a monster,
then got ****** at your monster
for being a monster.

i created a ritualistic woman,
me at my most masochistic,
she fell me and used
my writings to
stoke my funeral
pyre.

fading flesh,
melting ink,

fire, fire, fire.
Copyright 2009, Josh Hutton

— The End —