"mutilations" poems
The melody of the strings of life
a substitution for the institution
take my arm, let it reach a far
in creativity and sensitivity
beats bouncing the zombies
from the graves of impotency
created by mundane manipulation
mutilations of the happiness we long
as we capture the tides of everyday
The harmony of the universal love
screaming with a tantalizing mission
a remission from the decay of the society
sugar coated with lengthy dices of lies
then iced with laces of illusionary secretions
tis' me who embrace the skin you wear
as we seek a new phase of revolution
solutions that are delusional and waking
rising through ever dense curved valley
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
You can’t be seriously religious
If you’re not stripped naked
Like the goat or the insect
Like the tree and the snake
Like an erupting volcano
Give birth to a mountain
Justice flows down the wall
You slip and fall on the law
Naked wars and naked mutilations
Naked muslims naked christians
Naked laughs and naked cries
Bare naked to the day you die.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
Some days you surface into,
and there's no distracting yourself from
that irrefutable inevitability that
- ultimately -
entropy will win.
No quantity of
authentic artisan coffee or online memes
or juicing can
pull you out of the
black hole gravity
of that one truth.
The evidence is everywhere:
the spiteful confusion of electrical cables
your sleep-stupid fingers
fumble and fail to untangle;
the mold on the bread you
swore would keep a few more days;
the putrid, burst-open remains of
a pink armchair, left to rot in a
stranger's front garden;
the scavenging army of crows that loiters,
waiting for you to die and, in the
meantime, walks ****** little footprints
around your eyes;
the oxidation of
so many dreams.
It's inescapable.
Might as well root for the winner.
Embrace the decay.
Take photographs of
rust, smashed glass, peeling paint, dead flowers.
Learn to love faded colours and the feel
of broken things.
Catalogue your most
interesting scars and mutilations.
And, while you can,
write poetry.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
Application of misinformation
Falsify a failed nation,
Eradication of all creation
Misinterpretation
Of representation
Deny the station
Granted by occupation
And the inhalation
Of justification
No prerequisite information
Just accumulation
No moderation,
Their determination
Through stimulation
Cultural ************
Communal degradation
Societal desecration,
Dehumanizing revocation,
Worldly humiliation,
Mortal sterilization
Never achieving mobilization
Lack of communication
Excelling in vile persuasion,
Proponents of procreation
Birthing digitization,
Destroy civilization,
Indications of adoration
Isolation in delineation,
Irrational indexation,
Fluctuating indignation,
No innovation,
Divination
Retaliation,
Immolation,
False ovation,
Lacking limitations,
Contextual intonation,
Divine fabrication,
Private publication,
Evolving fornication,
Give me extermination,
Notwithstanding annexation
Of dismaying oxidation,
Of valued perpetuation,
Global mass-castration,
Redundant rhetoric, dictation,
A donation, a dilation, a fixation,
An annotation of fibrillation,
We are personification
Of Contamination
Through globalization
Praising idolization
And finalization
Through **********
No pragmatic exoneration,
In all frustration
We see not utilization
Nor stabilization,
Fearful implications
Of wayward stations,
Surplus mutilations,
Seeking militarization
Of worthless nations,
No conservation,
Just excavation
Of the population
******** on education,
Spitting on graduation,
No validation of aspiration,
Indoctrination of baptization
Mitigating litigation,
murdering habitation,
Quelling all vegetation
We will end in radiation
Through faulty navigation,
Abdication and abnegation,
All worldly agitation
Leads us to expiration,
Self-made annihilation.
There was never an end in sight,
We’re lost, and hope is a lie.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
It smells like burning flesh dip in a dish of sulfuric acid
It feels like sweat traveling all through your body while you travel across landscapes that cuts and burns you constantly
you can hear your heart beating ever so slowly, almost to a stop when you hear the screams of hell
it taste like bombs and metals, with blood regurgitation from your mouth
You can see the millions of dead bodies, you can see your comrades dying every minute,you can see mutilations of body parts and tears until eventually you see darkness and the sky is filled with hatred and sadness
and you must know in your heart that you did something wrong, that you shouldn't be there, that from that day your life was ruin forever
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
It's the Age of Fashionable Mutilation
buzz of the ink machine
pop of the needle through eager flesh.
Spread of a subculture
like the hippies and punks before them.
Those on the outside
puzzled or envious
ask Why?
How does one answer?
That it is the ageless questing
for that holy grail
for the answer to the meaning of life?
Some may say it is just an addiction
to the rush of endorphins
but just ask a tattoo ******
what his art stands for.
It is a map of his life
of those people, places and ideas
that brought him to who he is today
and who he wants to be tomorrow.
You see, it isn't just
the sting of the needle
or the rattle of the jewelry.
It's a public display saying
Here I am
here's where I've been,
here's who I hope to be.
It's a badge of honor, a memorial,
a hope and a dream.
It's a way to reach the next level
of enlightenment
and when that needle pierces your skin,
leaving a hole or scratches with a trail of ink
it leaves an imprint on your mind
as well as your flesh
of that moment
when you are ready to say to the world
this is me.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
the vacant hand fumbles along
attempts to occupy itself in mindless pursuit
breaking its toys and scattering others to distance
it worries the other hand with hard and sweaty massage
to no avail
the other hand retreats to its own worries
the vacant hand aches
eyes wandering too
they roam the room
wall floor ceiling
as if to find something new upon which to feast
as if to see is to be sated
the eyes heavy with desired sleep
but denied by this body
of restless pieces parts
the *****
think hard over every woman ever known
no matter how slight
its thirsty thought gasps like a man in the desert
for even a taste of sweet water
please just a drop or two
just a taste
the mind gripping its fever pitch self mutilations
stumbles along its random path
its thoughts glued to the passing images in half perceived memory
like a drooling imbecile
half laughing and half taunting the
silly's who occupy the insanity creeping into his soul
the path the mind treads
is well worn
been here before
round and round we go
like a punchdrunk prizefighter lurching
through the dim light
there is no finding way out
round and round we go
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
I don't know, maybe you were fooled
I'm a new student, I don't follow the rules
Forgiveness is a tool
And I don't mean to be so cruel
But I ain't in control of my heart
The place you were is now a hollow part
Leaving nothing but to let in the ****
My heart bought it all at the breakup mini mart
I used to wish it was smart
But it's been hit by poisoned darts
Ain't no forgiveness in this heart
It makes no exceptions,
My forgiveness is forsaken
You're gonna need a girl with low expectations
Your greatest weakness is the temptations
My greatest weakness is my mental mutilations
Neither are in relation
I was pointed out by my mind's creation
Who I am when we're together is who I shouldn't be
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
Scars are there to remind us of memories,
Painful, harsh, depressing, or not.
They are there for us to ponder, and give thought.
These scars are there to forget what we went through,
But still bear the marks and scorns of time.
Their phosphorescent glow, they seem to shine.
A way to bring us back down to reality,
A way to resemble the past,
What dark shadows and thoughts we have cast.
Accidental, mutilations, carefree times of glee,
These scars are the price we pay,
And memories of what our body has to say.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
Veiled
by Michael R. Burch
She has belief
without comprehension
and in her crutchwork shack
she is
much like us ...
tamping the bread
into edible forms,
regarding her children
at play
with something akin to relief ...
ignoring the towers ablaze
in the distance
because they are not revelations
but things of glass,
easily shattered ...
and if you were to ask her,
she might say—
sometimes God visits his wrath
upon an impious nation
for its leaders’ sins,
and we might agree:
seeing her mutilations.
Originally published by Poetry SuperHighway. Keywords/Tags: veil, veiled, religion, faith, belief, mothers, children, war, God, wrath, destruction, violence, Armageddon, Apocalypse, end times, last days, judgment day
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC
Watch me as
I return from the
Rubble
trace backwards
the Line of Fire
Try not to Gawk
as Ashes bleed together
form a shadow
devoid of all previous
Mutilations
Ready to Take on
the shape of Life
Keep your Skepticism to yourself
as I stretch newly formed
Perfect arms
toward Heaven
shudder as Breath pours
into my lungs
Linger
to expierence anew
the Taste of air
Life,
seen as a Privilege,
Takes on all new Forms
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
(
•
)
^^^
•
Crippled ole gal
Once was a god but he got hired by
HALLIBURTON
as an anti - terrorism consultant
and says he is doing more for humanity now
And is certainly more loved !
( take that you Liberals )
••
A new law is going thru Congress
giving the states the power to grant
**** licenses
On the grounds that studies show
That women aren't actually harmed by ****
And that men have the right to the pleasure
**** provides them
That is impossible to obtain in any other way
/////
Corporate money is pouring into Washington
As the elites highly favor the bill
••
In other news
86 poets on HP gleefully wrote of
Killing or maiming ex- lovers
Generating
811 likes and approvals
And many thanking the poet for the great idea
••
360,000 children died in oil wars this week
And 500,000 starved to death
Bringing in a massive world wide response
Of
** HUM
SO WHAT?
That caused god to say
DON'T LOOK AT ME
I WORK FOR HALLIBURTON
•
THIS JUST IN !!
Of those on HP
715 poets got laid today
Resulting in 217 self mutilations by razor blade
4116 screaming ***** fits
3 *******
And ( fortunately ) no pregnancies
( though I know most of you don't know of
the connection between *** and pregnancies
Or between pregnancy and child birth )
••
The level of MISERY AND DESPAIR
Has been upgraded from
INTOLERABLE
to
OH **** / WE 'RE ALL DEAD
///
The poets responded
DEAD ? Of COURSE WE 'RE DEAD !
WE WERE BORN DEAD !
////
I seen some kid walking with his head down
Thru the rain drenched streets
I tried to catch up with him
But I couldn't and he's gone
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Therapy
She had been there before
Tried to reach him
Tried to knock
Be polite
No one answered
It didn't seem urgent
She knocked again
Louder
She had no key
And it was urgent
She had to get inside
To reach him
She bruised badly
But the door finally caved
To victory!
And she called him
But all was silent
Contradictory
She looked around
At regret
Countless sacrifices
Mindless mutilations
Upon a false altar
Rejected by God
He was nowhere
Only an echo
In the horrid remnants
Of his experiment
With love
She had to get out
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
)(
/\
( • )
/\
___
many ( if not most )
Of our poems are written to
A ...... You
More properly spelled
Y
O
U
rising up as the ******* symbol that it is
/::/
By addressing the poem to this
Y
O
U
The real audience ( the actual readers )
Are effectively erased from the writer's consideration
And all responsibility for the poem is likewise erased
•
Y
O
U
as the subject matter
Totally de-personalizes the person who is the subject
Of the poem and renders him as a mere object
( phallus )
In the writer's mind
•
This enables the writer to invent any SELF desired
The usual SELF is of
THE VICTIM
category
//
This VICTIM status
Has been raised to a religious level
As
THE BROKEN PEOPLE
have replaced
THE CHOSEN PEOPLE
as the god given identification for mankind
•
With its ritual mutilations
( real or fake )
Commanding its ritual amens
And commiserations
///
be wary
DEAR YOUNG ONES
and try to write real poetry
For it can heal both you and the world
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
He likes to play operation on me,
Leaving mutilations under my skin.
Lacerations, ****** incisions
No bandage, no stitches,
Not a cast to correct the injury.
He opens me up, shreds me
And leaves me to heal in weird ways.
So,
Each time he does it to me
I become a bit more unrecognizable from the person I was before
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
Once upon a time
In a distant land
Lived a king.
He was a bloodthirsty tyrant,
A lover of massacres,
Excited by war,
With a lust for fight.
Every day the axe fell
Upon the head of some dissenter,
Every night the body
Of some enemy
Dangled on the castle's walls.
He showed no mercy,
He felt no pain
In witnessing the horrors
Of his ****** rule.
War was his entertainment,
****** his joy.
He had no friends.
He knew
Only enemies and servants.
So this king
Once went to war,
With his knights
and his horsemen,
Aiming at a merciless victory.
His horse was the on of champions,
His sword the masterpiece of blades.
His shield was shiny and strong.
But he lost the war.
And then the enemy captured him
And put him in jail,
Almost naked, wound and fragile.
The tower he was in was cold,
The chains were tight,
His fate unsure.
Nothing was left of his glory.
The first day he cursed
The enemy and all his ancestry,
The second he promised
All the money
He could give
To the prison's watchmen.
The third he just yelled
Unrepeatable slurs
And unspeakable atrocities.
But the fourth day
Something happened.
The king started to feel.
All the pain he inflicted upon others
Was now his pain,
Their suffering was now
The same he was feeling,
Their moaning was now
The only sound he could utter.
His was the head cut by the axe,
His the feet dangling from the walls.
His the wounds and the mutilations
Of every veteran of war.
He felt all of that
And he cried.
And so he cried,
And he cried, he cried
For hours and then for days.
He asked no mercy,
For him never granted it
For his victims.
He begged no forgiveness,
Because he was aware of his nature.
But he was forgiven.
The winning king
Had mercy of the tyrant,
Hearing his crying
In the middle of the night.
He set the ****** enemy free
And all of his army
Was able to follow him
Back to his kingdom
Knowing that something changed
In the tyrant's heart.
And so it was.
The king was amazed
By an act of kindness
He could not even conceive.
He felt so strange.
Suddenly he has become
Permeable to the pain of others.
Suddenly he gained empathy
For all the suffering
He could never feel before.
He felt so human.
All his life he wanted to
Distinguish himself
From the common men.
Now he just felt
Like he could live
In the heart of every man.
When the king died,
Many years after that fatal battle,
Everyone remembered him
As a wise, tender man,
A lover of peace,
Moved by compassion,
Delighted by love.
No one knew what happened,
But everyone
In that lucky kingdom
Knew that it was something
Unspeakably beautiful.
This happens to many men:
They're cruel when they're sheltered
By power and glory
Validated by honors and praise.
But none of them can stand
The power of an heart screaming,
When the discover this ancient truth:
Money and power
Make people different,
But common pain make us all equal.
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 5:59 PM UTC