"mutated" poems
* [Part the First]
There's some giddy, childish sensation
The hope of a new generation
Faceless cameras war for my voice
A flashing ocean of stomps and shoves
Taken from me is my choice
Given is a false sense of love
They smile too wide to be true
Contorted and stretched, like some plastic
But they're all I have before the blue
So deep breaths, and then come dramatics
People who pass me by
Don't seem to realise
The emptiness of the sky
When they look into my eyes
They ask:
Is it lonely up in space?
Is it a cold, abandoned place?
Is it bright amongst the stars?
Do you know who you really are?
[Part the Second]
My life has faded to drunken thoughts
Reality doesn't confirm what can't be bought
The multicoloured psychedelia
Of nebula turning to rainbows
Now looks more fake than ever
And so my sanity goes
There's a beast out there, lurking
I'm not sure if it wants me
But my hope is hiding, sulking
From the abyss that can hear and see
The worst way to die is alone
Where there's no one who can help me
As my punishment destroys my home
At least, from my memory
They screech:
It's so lonely up in space
It's a cold, abandoned place
It's too bright amongst the stars
I think I'm dreaming too far
[Part the Third]
The faintest echo of laughter
Presents itself as my only answer
It's distant, like someone drowning in ecstasy
But it rings from the walls to my ears
The effect of the starry-eyed seas
Has mutated into whimpering fears
I know I'm not amongst the stars anymore
But the damage cannot be undone
So I gave myself to the floor
I could lie here, and never see the sun
Space could've never actually existed
Just a vivid fantasy of escape
But my mind has been so twisted
It must've been the cruelty of fate
They wonder:
Was it lonely up in space?
Was it a cold, abandoned place?
Will the stars ever forgive?
Do I still have a life to live?
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 11:14 AM UTC
_1981_
They came in like diseased eagles; mutated
forms of those they wore on their chest and
with the change once again in the weather,
the ZOMO swooped in to quell what was
‘wrong’, what would bring them down. They
run in the streets as well as the miners,
running for different reasons and different
aims. I look down, out my window and see
the army helmets littering the street like rats.
Police. Rats.
I could no longer see a difference. My father
went to work that morning. I clutch my doll
knowing the chance of seeing him again is
Miniscule. Poor.
There is no more cereal in the cupboard;
there is no more cereal in the shop; there is
no more shop. The ZOMO set it on fire when the word
Solidarity
appeared in the window.
“We are closing the border for the safety of the People”
Incorrect. Unjustified.
For the safety of You, the Elite.
“Nine killed in mine shooting”
Which side?
Only the ZOMO carry guns.
Fascism. Communism.
I could no longer see a difference
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
Batman, Superman, Iron Man to I cant fly I can not turn blue?
Captain America, Wolverine, Flash, I cant shoot lazers from my eyes or be there in a dash.
X-men, Watchmen, Xavier too, im not from krypton or mutated from a Zoo.
Im not another hero I was rasied as a zero, through words I can inspire and now retire.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
My generations at a hold up
Force fed lies by society
We're never gonna grow up
Preoccupied with what we need
We subconsciously become devoured by greed
Insecurity is at the bottom of consumption
"You need ____ to succeed"
We're the last of a dying breed
Materialistic makeup
Our genetics have mutated
We're no longer able to wake up
From the nightmare we've created
Identification has taken a new definition
You are what you posess
Unaware the latest trend is only repetition
Sheltered by our ignorant need
Progress is our main goal
Yet we're unsure of how to proceed
So instead we proclaim our need for change
While spending the last of our common sense
On a fee to enter this stage
Which acts as our cage
Locking us into society's game
It's the final act
Our last chance to fame
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 9:53 PM UTC
Dear Girl,
I really really love you, yes I do.
Not like it used to be, I'm no longer "in love",
It's something different, that I'd never felt before,
But I really really love you,
Dear Girl.
Dear Girl,
I really really mean it, yes I do.
Not "in love" like I used to be, I'm something else,
It's so strange, and I've never felt it before,
But I really really love you,
Dear Girl.
Dear Girl,
I really really mean it, yes I do.
Not like I used to be, I've changed a whole lot,
It's different, my heart doesn't want "in love",
But I really really love you,
Dear Girl.
Dear Girl,
This poem was a long time coming,
But I wrote the story when I didn't know how to be me,
Now wrote the poem when I grew some brains,
But I always really loved you,
Dear.
Sweet Girl,
You didn't deserve those late nights,
Where I killed your insides, when I made you cry and cry and cry,
They made you love me less, they made you numb, and you fell out of love,
But I really really loved you,
Sweet Girl.
Sweet Girl,
I've never been anything you deserve,
You had to pick me up off the floor, and it was more than you needed,
You pieced me together, but the person before you, she sabotaged me,
I had a destruct button you couldn't see,
Sweet Girl.
Sweet Girl,
Neither of us saw it,
We both thought I'd healed, from the awful things that happened to me,
You didn't get to see, but the person you were, you stayed with me,
When I became a nuclear disaster,
Sweet Girl.
Sweet Girl,
I try not to blame,
But you'll never understand how your mother was the Tsunami and Earthquake, and I was Fukushima,
We both didn't see it, but I was a nuclear plant, and meltdown waiting to happen,
The damage was too great, that June,
Sweet Girl.
Sweet Girl,
I never understood,
Even my own actions, because I loved you from the start, and I don't know what happened to me,
But in times before you, people built me, and you just became the new plant operator,
You didn't know I was so unsafe,
Sweet Girl.
Sweet Girl,
Nuclear plants are rather safe,
They just can't handle Tsunamis and Earthquakes, because they're made of materials that crack,
Under that kind of stress, I didn't just crack, I crumbled, I began melting down,
But you didn't know and I'm sorry,
Sweet Girl.
Sweet Girl,
You've been through a lot,
The Tsunami was hard, but you didn't know about the radiation, that it would destroy you,
You were mutated by the horrible conditions you had to live through,
But you didn't know and I'm so very sorry,
Sweet Girl.
My love,
You didn't know it,
But we were both reactors waiting to blow, disasters waiting to happen, to cause destruction,
We mutated each other until we didn't even know who we were,
I'm so very sorry, so so sorry,
My love.
Poor Girl,
I really really try today, yes I do.
Not like I used to try, but now I try to be strong, and not a nuclear reactor but more like carbon fiber,
But carbon fiber is brittle, since you killed me inside,
But I forever love you,
Poor Girl.
Poor Girl,
You've cleared your rubble,
Growing to be the most amazing and beautiful of skyscrapers, you're an inspiration for the world, you know,
You're so much different, standing taller than you'll ever know,
But skyscrapers can fall too,
Poor Girl.
Poor Girl,
You make yourself content,
Being alone, you tell yourself that alone doesn't mean lonely,
That you find peace in the solitude,
But solitude is an empty thing,
Poor Girl.
Poor Girl,
We can pick each other up,
You don't even know, it's not the same kind of picking up that we tried before,
This picking up can only go up,
Because we don't even care to feel sad anymore,
Poor Girl.
Poor Girl,
You don't even know, how much I want to kiss you,
But it's different than before, it's more like the kisses mothers give to children,
When their children are crying, the kind of kisses that make great statements and tell stories,
The stories only kisses can give,
My girl.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
queer creature of white stone:
the spirit of the island in the head of this lion,
the soul of the natives in the body of this fish,
spirit and soul, lion and fish, mingle together by
mere wry humour of evolution’s word
we revere this beast, (it watches over us
from nine metres above), we bow down our backs,
(worship it as our exemplar): for many of us,
unknowingly, we emulate the spirit and soul
of this queer white creation of stone.
standing tall (unshaken!) even as jaundice bolts of heaven’s
creep tip-toed behind its scales and strike:
its cemented steadfastness of stone we emulate,
for through the towering grey waves of crisis, and
the threatening dark clouds that foretell our very fears,
we too, have floated and transcended and appeared
unscathed.
mutated monster – child of bad genes,
they despise such unfavourable antagonistic features
(shall it rule like a lion or flail like a fish?):
its unlikeliness of surviving, of thriving we emulate:
for this dotted smudge of red pen ink on the globe,
destined to bow down to fate – bowed down not, and
flourished.
beams of white water spouting out in a
perfect shape of a quadrant’s circumference, endlessly,
its majestic spewing action we emulate:
this island of expectations, sterile smell of success,
fate of our future in the setting of an exam hall,
(in there do you not think we resemble the merlion,
our mouths the hoses, the papers our well?)
but, oh, the merlion – so many of it –
the merlions, same-maned, same-scaled,
fluttering and bursting with imitation across our home:
such congruity, conformity we emulate:
for years of yearning to swim in the mainstream waters,
of being goldfish, instead of losing the waters for flight like flying fish,
have made us very much, about
the same.
queer creature of white stone:
do you see not how we resemble your very self,
how we offer you praise (by
lifting our human arms, arching on our mere knees,
hoisting our lowly mortal heads, surveying your colossal royalty,
camera in hand)?
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:02 AM UTC
Metaphorical suicide.
My feelings are as deep as the valleys running across my wrist: Non existent.
Countless heart breaks from a single girl proved to be a likely deterrent.
Old habits die easy with you, causing my fists to turn a dark red hue.
Empty bottles and cigarettes litter the floor, a noose hanging above being the only door so that I will finally soar.
Or dare I ask, and partake in this task which will surely leave me stripped of my sanity.
Watch me load a revolver with a single casing engraved "True Love" . Look me in the eyes as I place the barrel of the gun made from the broken memories we shared together unto my chest, and watch as I pull the trigger, causing my metaphorical platter splatter into globs of grey matter.
I lay in my bed sleepless, non existent lateral lines running up and down my wrists, non existent, yet I still feel the throbbing and the slow spill of everything I ever felt ,drip down into my sides, surrounding me in a puddle of...
Real tears caused by the fears of letting go, or is what surrounds me are all the mistakes I've made, mutated from being left alone with no where else to go, so they make their way to the surface waiting for me to profess all that I've wronged? No. All that would have been too merciful.
Instead you took all of my feelings, my love, my heart, and melted it down into the shape of a metal bat, ironically engraved "tough luck" and proceeded to beat me in.
Not to bad, or painful. But to the point where I feel it, then the pain quickly recedes, like i am stuck in the sand of a island you marooned me on, The acid waves wash over me for a split second, causing pain into my heart, then it's gone. Causing me to forever constantly.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
I feel her there sometimes
Sometimes silent, sometimes not
When she is silent the emptiness is
Oppressive
And makes my skull feel heavy and weak
And my thoughts clouded with
The groping fingers of all that ask,
"Are you okay?"
When she screams, I am filled
To the brim with panic and chaos
That spews from her maw in
Tangled, writhing masses
The sound is almost angelic.
Is she heavenly?
I have never seen her but I know what she looks like.
It is a knowing feeling, or an overexcited imagination?
Long, tangled black hair,
Something is caught in the snarls and curls.
A pale face whiter than bone,
Thin and fragile like china.
Hands clawed and twisted,
Feet swollen and scarred.
A white dress long in tatters slipping off the bony shoulder
*please take me back,
take me home*
I plead but there are no words
Comprehensible to my human
(However extraordinarily mutated)
Brain
That leave her cracked lips.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
You don't love
me;
you love the
tip of the iceberg
that is your idea of me;
the sugar-coated mute
leading herds
of unfinished sentences
down the copious hills
of his insecurity;
the nice little writer
whose constant attempts
at legendary one-liners
are as hit-or-miss
as a sitcom still airing
far past its prime.
I possess three biomes,
or, rather, three networks
of personalities and identities.
I am much more than
the Jack Macfarland archetype
lip-syncing to Cher in the one
gay bar in town, tyrannically
governing your wardrobe,
possessing a razor-sharp wit
cast toward the backs of his community
in the form of an outdated punchline-
my work on that show
lost its Willful relevance
and Graceful naivete
years ago.
I am of the generation
fed media saturation
three four-hour meals a day,
who ingested cardboard cadavers
as if they were mother's milk
and internally mutated their
thoughts and desires
to fit the compact time frame
of 30 minutes
to settle the series' worth
of traumas and neuroses
while making it home for dinner
to stay tuned for what's
next in the lineup.
Speaking as a casualty of this
inevitable chain of events,
I regretfully declare that even
those who have seen
every episode of myself
for the past six seasons
are still light years away
from the room full of faces
unencumbered by euphemism.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
Sway of a tree, rope hanging down.
Swing, crack, swing, feet graze the ground.
Scruffy old shoes, laces like the rope,
If only you had known that you still had so much hope
Pill Popper, made you feel.
You needed someone to know that this pain was real
Swing, crack, swing, go the branches above you
They called out with the wind and begged you not to
Mutated in the brain, lay the mangled secret
And it whispered to you softly Keep it, keep it, keep it.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Maynard the Martyr
moored in the marshland
misrepresented
and misinformed
much maligned
melancholy
misfortunate and small-minded
unmotivated
a real Melvin –
macho magpies munch
mangos and marshmallows
in the moonlight
mired in muck and mud
misshapen
mutated
malformed
mushrooms
manifest momentarily
mocking Miss Marple –
marbleized Maples
mobilize
marching to madness
in moccasins
across Morocco
to Monico
or Mexico
perhaps Montana?
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
*concerning the last lines... all we can do with the Cartesian Libra is add adjectives to it, which is contrary to what the existentialists did by simply modifying a furthered abstraction of the compounds 'i think' and 'i am', via the inverted comma(s), otherwise known as dittoing, sic, prior said, or re-, true to the oddity; a king will continue to question his position / being a king by not thinking about it, hence his uninhibited delusions, hereditary, very much genetic; and hence someone who precursors his being with much concern for thinking, the inhibited delusion, self-serving - both are adjective expansions of the Cartesian Libra, just added qualities, given both are facts requiring a slab of marble to look like Rodin's kiss - or approximate, with therefore being the chisel, and so dependent the end product, indeed a slab of marble at first, but not necessarily Rodin's kiss at the end - perhaps a Notre Dame gargoyle...*
i am what i think,
that's what i came up with after
reading some of the bio sketches -
even though the truth is that
i am what i own -
thinking is the part that comes last,
if i own a bed and a roof over my head,
i end up i thinking about being
homeless - but sometimes you do find
the ones that are inclined
to be what they think, the extremes
we call them - supreme anti-materialists,
it's not satisfying to own a house
or a phone, more is required,
something tinged with transcendental
counters - they "own" a home
but rather not live in it, already the
looming fairy of heaven tells them
of an unnatural life expectancy -
some might say thinking a form of
uninhibited delusion sketches,
like i'd be a venture capitalists taking
a weekend away in Hawaii while
some ridiculousness of poverty in India
was to blame for my jet streams and
carbon footprints - they keep the
inhibited delusional in cages without
a chance to sketch - because the uninhibited
delusional have all the freedoms
that Versailles could allow - or...
uninhibited delusions of non-thought,
inherited, hereditary,
versus inhibited delusions of thought,
mutated, self-invented...
this could very well be a "magic" square
with two further variations, i.e.
uninhibited delusions of thought (psychopathy)
inhibited delusions of non-thought (coma?
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
The pale lips are smashed together in a fake smile, the teeth not wanting to show in the little pod of the mouth, hiding like scared peas. It’s frightening.
The eyes crinkled just right so that it looks so plastered on that you can tell it is fake, the folds overlapping again and again in an unnatural way. I blink.
The cheeks covered in makeup, splashed on in spots, smoothed over in others, splatter painted to look realistic. It doesn't work.
The fingers resting oh so stiff on the stomach raised a bit so that they are hovering above the skin, like he doesn't want to touch the dead fabric. I wouldn't.
The suit, so neatly pressed that not a wrinkle shows, except for on the collar where nobody notices. But I do.
The silk lining of the box he is resting in is shiny and overly polished, like a cherry wood dining room table with an overload of Pledge. It hurts my eyes.
The bouquet of flowers is a bundle of Death’s heavy perfume disguised as a bunch of roses and daisies. The smell is disgusting.
The picture frames surrounding the box are shined like pairs of leather shoes, embedded with gems and memories that are long past. It makes me sad.
The stuffed animals in the corner gaze deadly at the group, mold and dust sapping the life out of their beady eyes. They make me shiver.
The chair I sit on is hard and stiff, the cushion starched to the breaking point, the crackly material hardly comfortable. I squirm.
The vent above me blows a gale of cold air and underlying currents, which whips up my hair in a flurry of brown. I pat my head.
The people around me clutch tissues in bony hands, the wadded up paper soaked through with tears and makeup. It looks gross.
So as I observe every detail of this morbid place, I close my eyes and breath deep. Mistake. The air is ripe with anger and sadness, misery and frustration. Musky lady perfume, sharp man perfume. My hands clench, unclench, furl, unfurl. My throat closes up then swallows that lump of matter lodged in my my esophagus. What is death? What is Heaven? What is God and Jesus and church? What is all of that if it ends up like this? Like a cancerous tumor, like a lump of mutated cells, like a painful death? It is forgiveness and freedom and newness.
With that I open my eyes again and cry.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
To tell the story of the nice-guy
is to tell a tale of unlost innocence.
There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy. There is no effort
to niceness; only a ****** world that blossoms
on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past.
Tomorrow, in Houston,
a butcher will wake up to slaughter a cow he may have named.
There will no be no tears when he grills steak for the wife he wooed
and the children he prescribed himself.
Three daughters,
from fifteen to twenty-two.
Tiramisu for dessert.
Ten guns in the cabinet beneath the stairs
and innocence buried behind the woodshed.
Pretend now, that you are forgiven.
Mistakes fade like snow angels, regrets
float like chemtrails.
You love you as much as the world always did.
You have not seen friends struck down by powders or lunacy,
you have only lived in the glow of their light. Hearts remain full.
The word swagger hasn’t been hijacked by hip hop
and bluejeans still mask imperfections. Sunsets are memorable,
and so are first dates and last kisses.
Sun won't blister fragile shoulders.
Fields blossom just in time to suit your irregular taste buds,
satisfying sweet corn cravings on Christmas.
Forget your father’s words
or a stranger's hand.
Forget improbability, impossibility,
impotence, importance,
impatience
and improper goodbyes.
Forget the tears cried alone
into ***** filled sheets at midnight.
Forget the effect but remember the cause,
camouflaged like a landmine of good ideas.
Forget the fights and slow-turn walk-aways
that turned words flaccid.
Forget friends ******* ex-girl friends
and amphetamines crashing into hallucinations.
Nice-guys vanish like good ideas,
lost in the shuffle,
looking for pen and paper,
just like house cats die
on the forth of July,
and all that’s left are ashes
on a mantel
alongside fraudulent grins.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
There are too many segments in this orange,
I tore away the rind and pulled at the pith with my thumb,
exposed the flesh that fell apart,
but there are too many segments in this orange,
it won't fit back together.
Ill fitting fruit, mutated citrus genes.
You were bigger than yourself.
What freaky secrets your cratered, sunset skin
hid beneath its thick, fragrant glow.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
I wish I could erase
Those days fawning over him
Just so I could say
I have only ever loved you
But I must be harsh
To be honest
And that is what you ask
So I did once love a boy
Long after you left
Because he stopped tears
And had nice dimples
He was so different from you
I knew nothing of him really
But was enticed
Intrigued
So lonely and lustful
My infatuation
Morphed into a mutated love
But now I wish to erase him
Erase the eyes
Dimples
Erase the tears he saved me from
Erase everything
Except how I still mentioned your name
To him
All the time
Because the truth is
You were my first love
And that
Is unforgettable.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
Dreams are mutated monsters
They've adapted to this world
They give you hope
Just long enough
To let their brothers in
And trust me
When that happens
The brothers will destroy you during the day
And the dreams will turn on you
And destroy you during the night
Dreams are mutated monsters
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
I waited too long
to mow my lawn
biopsy my lung
yet lived long enough, anon,
however long is long.
Whatever. It's not wrong
to count along
while busy living. Sing
and stay strong
absorb the sun's photons
and store them in your bones.
Those bones
outlast slights and spurns
are white as lightning and strong
as sticks and stones.
Inside is one's
spirit, soul, the nameless one
the one that's never known.
It has no cell phone
can't communicate or even moan.
Therefore. Why complain?
Have some fun.
Soon
I'll be undone
subterranean
my garden burned down.
So what. John Donne
died and so did Milton.
Emerson too, and Whitman.
Get over it. Vote. Love. When
the train comes in the station
whistle with it, wish on
stars with passion
or careful hesitation.
Anything's fine, within reason.
Season by season
things get done.
Algebra and calculus, Malcolm X, George Washington.
No taxation
without representation.
A gun
in every den.
People will be governed
one way or another, by a sovereign
or trusted friend. Corporation.
Men
are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than
to right themselves by abolishing the Evils to which they are
resigned.
I'm too young
to die! I cry. My generation
cannot outrun the sun
but I want to see what happens
next, a tsunami or tornado, rain
and wind beyond our comprehension
hit in the head by speeding debris, irony
of ironies! plastic contraptions,
rotting computers and yogurt cups, pain
in the baby! Moment's
notice. None,
I notice, live long
enough to see the end. Amen. A million
years hence
human sense
has so modified and mutated among
other moons
we share one mind
and everything's remembered by everyone.
Look it up. There is no death, just perfect rest. A perfect tan
is possible, and work is fun.
I'm going there when I pass on
because souls will travel at warp speeds, using nuclear fission.
About suffering, religion
was right (and wrong) all along.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
When I look in the mirror and I see nothing,
but they visualize the world in my curves
so I go with it.
I feel degraded, but their satisfaction somehow settles my nerves
more than I’ll ever admit.
There has to be something more than this,
but instead I’m stuck in a mutated bliss
that gives me less than a pinch of confidence,
which I savor as my self-significance...
...is this all I’m worth?
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
shattered dreams
American nightmare
ghoulishly stalking mankind
Bilderberg extremists
owl effigy looming
behind the all seeing
eye of rah –
multi-national tycoons
inspire blooming death
radiated waters flush with fluoride
filter through sippy-cups
washing away the taste
of vaccinations
and GMO soy –
mutated masses mumble monotonously
meager motor skills
meandering through melted meadows
masochistic in the macabre –
moonless morning breaks
trails checkerboard the sky
cubism
from air force fly-boys
under orders to implement agenda 21
disguised as protection
from solar radiation
old soil toils under the strain of oil based
pesticides
and molecularly altered
food crops
for profit
and to experience the long lost joy
associated with being a swashbuckling pirate –
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
frozen fallout shelter housing dried goods and tinder
black bean and rice prepper bent on the end of days
looking first to the sky and then to the government
absorbing radiation and propaganda
faster than organic apple juice can flush the system
triple berry blast yogurt smoothie shakes violently
in hands coated with Lyme and the scent of the non-believers
bodies unburied lead only to disease and discomfort
stench filled landscape harboring mutated mankind
arms outstretched seeking normalcy and edible grains
contaminated meat from damaged cans sits unprotected
thin and frail lithosphere no longer preventing dermal cancer
only encouraging drought and famine while burning retinas and emaciating newborns
procreation as a plan of self-destruction and child-abuse
distant smokestacks, cracked, create a forlorn skyline
instilling visuals from days gone by
of easy life and happy youngsters
before the nuclear discovery
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
listening as the
sea hears the
moon and sun
cascading flow or
pulling away
melded in
********
tortured ecstasy
creating
a thousand words
for every birds
eye view
my body giving in
to
my mind
my soul somewhere
in-between
silent worlds
of unseen eyes and inward probing
these neurotic bodies
swaying visceral waters
deeper currents not
complying as yet in
this cosmic
****** of
light & darkness matter & void
affecting only the surface
pulling back
only waves
pushing them back
to the ever-changing
shoreline
when affecting
only the surface
it appears to
be dull monotony
at the beck and call of the
moon's every whim...
oh
and other orbs play
their part with her
but infinitely deeper
dramatic ebb and
flow
cannot be witnessed
by the seagull's gaze
the thoughts of the soul
are faint or nil
in the patterns of
vision-mind
our bodies
listening to this galactic
dialogue seethe
in stagnant waters
when the mind like the
moon is all she
hears
or whatever brings
in a stronger
signal
we have taken her away
kept her estranged as
mutated cells eating away
conformed to the
image of an empty shell
of a neutral network
caught in a degenerative loop
a dense
gravitational pull slowly
leading her along
into the vortex of the
absence of light
yet something our minds
cannot understand as
yet is developing
out of sight-mind after
the imploding of her
beautiful
mass
after
the burning-out of
countless worlds
beyond
even the furthest reach
of the poetic
eye
a genesis beyond eden
attempting with
greater resolve to
orchestrate the divine
purpose of the
primeval garden
rearranged
and tuned to higher
******** harmony
the new
birth of soul leading
body & mind
her voice
being the gravitational orb
swaying visceral
waters and deeper currents
complying this
time around.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
We grab our blades,
and go to war.
You cut me up,
and I cut you more.
I beat your arms,
while you flood my head.
**** out your words,
and I drown instead.
Yet you've no bruises,
mine are as dim as night.
They say it's just darkness,
but they can't see your eyes.
You mutate reality,
and I only help.
"Can I get better?"
I say; and, farewell--
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC