"misfires" poems
1.
Nymphomaniac-addicts,
Overweight bisexual vegetarians
Climbing trees to stay fit
and eating 80’s fried chicken *******
2.
just imagine
Aquarians full of class valedictorians
Swimming on display for graduation ceremony…
reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His *****
3.
Better yet, just imagine
Holy wars,
Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains
Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights
Under the mistletoe,
Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes
Driving through hoes
After the whistle blows
4
College Literacy classes teaching basic:
Ideas that good questions leads to good answers,
Reading reminders
Free association conceptual constructions
5.
But ************ professor:
free association **** shticks
misfires, false alarms
are all art, too,
Like sticking a dagger into an apple,
Not the edible, but the technology.
6.
Go head, deconstruct the philosophy
Of oral cute-tification,
according to the Tautology of Leviticus,
With the same three half truths, pogroms
against biological deviant... FLAGS!
7.
Cryptic gospels of a ************
Where three F.F.F’s
Stands for six six six
Like how 1mg of juxtaposition
And a dose of metamorphosis
is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon
‘cause even the Holy Ghost
drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood.
8.
Reading,
Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II,
At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts
With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes
Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.
It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.
No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.
---
Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.
A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.
It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.
You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.
And you would have no answer
they could use.
---
The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.
It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.
---
The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.
So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.
Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.
They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.
A trace.
---
Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.
Once, they dreamed in metaphor.
Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.
The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.
---
No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.
The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.
If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.
A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.
---
Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.
Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.
It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
For fuck's sake.
How did we end up here again?
The soothing, annoying word flickers on my blue-back lit screen and I am ****** back to the tumultuous moment when once upon a time it yelled bipolar.
And here we go again.
My thoughts flick, flit, floss between teeth made for biting and real meat. They need plaque, collection, to grow and accumulate mass to progress. But there my flicking thoughts go, flossing.
I've always struggled focusing, but I just got excitable, got manic, and it would solve everything. Mania was my monster, my red bull, and now that its sated and off to Wonderland...
I'm left here, face to face, with a twitchy white rabbit wondering why I would ever think to use my pretty little head when its such a good projectile into the sky.
I had always wondered, in those whispering nights, when my hands couldn't stop moving and my head wouldn't shut up, if something was wrong. But it was silly, I had two already, full of worry then full of poles. Couldn't be another, could it?
Of course, a Grace of Wonderland always knows best, and here we are. Another bottle to drink to keep me sane.
I wonder if my fingers will thank the capsules when I might stop biting them? Or my toes? Is this why my toes always twitch and dance, why they stand center-stage in so many of my mild fantasies? After all these years, the divas that my lower digits have become may not appreciate losing their star titles.
I just want to be fine. I want to figure out how to move beyond all the strange misfires in my head. How did I survive so long without a notice? Inflates my ego to know I should have been caught by now.
Guess just like the White Rabbit, despite my widgets and worries, no one can stop me from running when I'm madly, absolutely, refusing to be late.
Graces only knows to fight with fire and fists. Tis the state of my Wonderland, and perhaps now things will only get better.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
studying his
face, luckiest
man on earth:
jokes about y2k,
and getting old.
new normal:
bandaged
stab wounds
and Abilify in
little paper cups.
leaning back in
my chair,
reading the ceiling,
conjuring
the saint of
shoddy aim,
misfires, doubt,
humor-
however slight
in our distances.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 3:01 AM UTC
I need balance
I’m too extreme like my beliefs
Far too sorry to apologize
Forgiveness would be a lie I couldn’t live with
Balancing under pressure became a crushing defeat
Misfires and misdirection can land the highest man beneath
Untreated wounds breed infection
The lessons learned are easy to remember
Dismembered and off-kilter
Unbalanced drunkards lay wasted like death
Effigies of what used to be
**** it¨ attitudes
Added to the frustration
Of falling and failing, my fault
I brought shook hands
Like an addict
Moderation is balance
My mode is moody
****** off and impatient
I meditated to medicate anger
¨Endangered species fighting for survival!¨
Was the greatest lie I ever told
I fought a war for peace
More violent than buddha’s
And I won
I won a deadly victory
Balance was not built for chaos
I’m a riot, raunchy
What I want no longer haunts me
I’m not a victim of crime
Im the victor
Missteps led me away from destruction
My mistakes were made
To save me
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
I’ve been bleeding
black and blue bubbles
through extruded cartridges.
Leaving doilies soiled
on your dressed tables
without placing a touch.
Trying to donate gifts
from my darkening life
to a priceless recipient.
Pushing your peace away
with each bubble blown
onto ink-smeared surfaces.
My mental misfires
cause my life line
to tangle and retreat.
I’ve tormented my threshold
with a shattered appendage
that over extended its reach.
As I twist tourniquets,
I represent one unconditioned
for appreciating being love in truth.
Please, reset my uneven mending
and apply an encouraged healing
by molding me in wrappings of you.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
she ties my shoestrings
together. so my feet don't go
independently. while I try to
waltz her musical score
of rests through a series of
misfires from an amygdala,
who thought it knew the
best way to handle
California droughts.
instead, arm hairs burned up
and only a melanoma
of false hope traveled.
skin to heart, to brain but you
nestled in a tender gluteal spot.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
Walking down an alley with you
We talked about China’s one child law
and the flaws of procreation
I admitted I had intrusive thoughts
and nightmares about hurting children
and how it scares me
we both got quiet
I couldn’t breathe so we sat down,
I don’t know why I said that, I’m just
tired of living alone in my fear,
My hands used to create life
And beautiful things, now
they just shake and destroy
like they’re wired all wrong,
my brain misfires and
shatters everything I love,
I should be quarantined,
put away forever,
I should be dead.
- S.G.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
I've been torn, broken between two
But I am only one, and I can't seem to choose
My heart is confused with nuero misfires
Dazed and confused, my heart, it aches
For not only him but you
What can I do to relieve this pain
It leaves me with only one to gain
Who's to say which one is the right way
But as it stands, my heart, it aches
I do not know what it is I can do
So that I do not hurt either of the two
My heart it hurts and bleeds, with love
But I still cannot find which is above
Its an endless battle with me against myself
My heart it beats for two, with love
But I cannot endure it for much longer
Because my heart can only get so much stronger
A muscle in itself, my heart, it aches
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
A firm grip with hands fully extent
Pressures rise when I meet your eyes
Fists clenched, I know I'm not your type
Its not till now that I see, you meet all my tastes
I don't even know you
I let you stir trouble in my mind
Gave a stranger access to my emotions
Cause me to have misfires in my mood
I feel angst in my soul and see my hearts aura explode
No control, no taking hold of it, don't look back on me
This is a tragedy, its a force of mischief
Enlightened by my mysterious characteristics
You try to get closer but I am chained
You say you have the keys
You tell me not to be afraid
I sat there defenseless and opened up the doors
Because I knew I wouldn't have to worry about getting hurt again
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
Errant little lights ~
of colors marvelous ~
tiny whirrs and whistles ~
sing so sonorous ~
Oh, how they whip and whirl ~
about my silly form ~
tiny, little, laughing lightning ~
tiny little storm ~
the wind abides to swirl my sleeves ~
and offers naught but heat’s reprieve ~
to gaff in gathering gifts so grim ~
the world delights in whimsy-whim
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
i feel like a tight string stretching or pulling
at times just going
into a single direction but the horizon isn't clear because
i'm watching everything from my peripheral (turn around)
days when i stay awake too long and my head begins to move around shakily, unsure and always unassuming
inside my head the dazed knife seizures into little misfires that guide my hands (hold them)
like in those Saturday cartoons when a finger is pinched between an electrical socket and the entire body turns into static, like a lightning bolt personified
but this is real life and what seems so pleasant sometimes leaves my tongue blue, like too much color
too much starch, saturated until your eyes water
and you have to walk away
your back was always the most beautiful to me
but i follow because this is what you do
because this is what i do
because i know you'll always turn around
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC
I think I'm fine with
kickin' over church pews
desperate to find where my rituals hide.
Ghost stories never taught me nothin' but runnin'
and hidin'--
Tonight they'll be exorcised.
By the end of this year,
I hope they won't recognize me;
all free and clear
from old, sour misfires.
Tired of sad sermons I been tellin' myself
so I'll shelve 'em and try to let myself debride.
I think I'm fine with
forgetting the words
to this tired parable I've spent too much time with.
Ghost stories never teach ya nothin' but runnin'
and hidin'--
from yourself and your best lived life.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 9:51 AM UTC
*there are certain lessons
that life always guarantees
so, no matter how long it takes
we always come full cycle in the end
living with and loving a ******
is foolhardy and always misfires -
girl he will prize you away from decency
and love your money like a mad schemer
till the dead man weeps in his grave
weeps the tears of a sightless cadaver
whose one -time true love has gone bad
whose children are strangers and captives
in a home their father bequethed
now this smooth operator, sideburns, cigars and all
reclines in the dead man's armchair
and sips the dead man's vintage whiskey
in a vile act of virulent disrespect
and the voluptuous widow
worships the ground he walks on
she rolls around the house to please him
as her dead husband's children join the orchestra
of too many children weeping*
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
naive naivette recent
realizing wet dew glistening foreheads seeing
pearlescent
visionary hallucinations
innocent shadows purplish
resolved by
misfires synapses coding
reality into
past, futures, trying with all my endorphins,
the pipe or
organs
to make a sound which
sounds like a riff,
or
eternally
making
up the
replaying
scents of childhood's
lost visions...
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
I think i've lost my heart
I don't think you understand, What i truly am
But yet here you stand,
Telling me who i am
I can no longer be, what you want from me
What was it you stole from me?
Blooming on my heart,
Losing veins as you take root
As the synapse misfires.
Thoughts that become liars,
Lies that become the truth
Truths are turning on my youth,
Aging into the monster,
But you lean in closer.
Praying on this broken altar,
The gods forget to forgive,
But These shadows keep stealing.
A night that i keep feeding,
Returning to limbo
About every year or so,
To find another light
To burn another bridge
Standing at the ridge
Saying more and feeling less
Still hiding in this mist of nicotine
Clouding my judgements.
You,
You instill the stillness in my heart
And she.
She derives the anger.
Repetitive mistakes,
As the synapses misfires
And my thoughts become liars.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
Take me as a definition: a surface-level heart that drowns in
deep thought, quietly pondering love, quietly grieving loss.
Loss not just for someone; a loss for most words. Because
when you’ve been dealing with a lot, you stop explaining
and start enduring.
Take me, for example: yesterday I had a conversation with
myself, but it sounded like I was addressing the ugly stuff,
the versions of me I don’t post about. Getting a little older,
I now feel the subtraction of duration settling in my bones.
It’s not pain exactly. It’s more like time knocking without
waiting for permission.
Multiply that by multiple misfires, all the times I believed,
in my head, that I’d finally found _the one_. Now, I’m left
divided. Not between people, but between the stories I told
myself; the truths I keep avoiding. Insanely rich with poor
results — "wait, that doesn’t add up." As that’s the math of
memory: it never balances the way love promises it will.
Still I need a leg up, not just to raise the hopes of this tired
heart, but just to step out of my despairs. Because lately,
I’ve been third-wheeling the very idea of love; a tagalong
to a party I used to host. And when it comes to falling for
someone with a previously broken heart, you learn quick:
it doesn’t come with a spare.
I’ve realized love either helps you make strong memories
or leaves you with the memory of a _sus stain_. You can’t
always tell which until it’s already on you, and by then
you’re already trying to scrub out that which you hoped
to sustain.
__The Arithmetic of Almost-Love.__
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 7:03 PM UTC
Realizing my doubt
Is not your fault
Someone long ago realized
There is a monster in my rib cage
Eating at my heart
And I have always ingnored it
Even from the start
Steadfastly believed
I have always been happy
But sometging must have changed
And now I know
its not the way you say my name
(This still breathes the way it did)
Or the way you kiss me
(You still put fire in my veins)
Or the way you look at me
(My heart still stops)
But instead its growing up
And realizing somethings always been wrong
That the chemical switches in my brain
Have all developed misfires
And that monster in my chest
Has broken through its cage
Is now in my mind
And the fact of it is
I probably need help
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
Her perception is like a abandoned house
Taking over by Mother Nature
Her memory fades as the vines penetrate her aged mind
Not as well built as she was in her youth
Brick walls crumble from the decades
Faces an names no longer meet the connections as they use too
Just silhouettes
She forgets to remember
The structure of her thoughts weakened by the cracked support beams
The signals in her brain scattered like a school of fish
Misfires makes her forget
Introductions repeatedly like this is the first time we met
Her experienced eyes look past me
Anyone can see
The disease is eating her memory
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC