"muzzles" poems
The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line
Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,
In establishments which imagined lines
Can only haunt. Sturdy as potatoes,
Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,
Given an inch. Not that they're gross (although
Afterthought often would have them alter
To delicacy, to poise) but that they
Shortchange me continuously: whether
More or other, they still dissatisfy.
Unpoemed, unpictured, the potato
Bunches its knobby browns on a vastly
Superior page; the blunt stone also.
17.8k
--To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the ******
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
3.9k
How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me ---
The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will ----
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery,
Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries ----
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour ----
Dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ----
The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ----
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place
Turning and turning in the middle air,
Untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ----
An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
Step up to you from the black car of Lethe,
Pure as a baby.
3.6k
he had a third beer
before the hot platters came
he would have had another, had she not
stared, like she going to ask every question
he did not want to answer…
how did it feel to slap his first wife?
how did it feel to pull the trigger
and mow men down like so many weeds?
those were the questions in her eyes
and had he ever told anyone, what happened that night
when they came upon a village, where the young ones
slept with the dead, their ancestors
only a few feet away, watching, mute,
beyond the paddies where they planted the rice,
the narrow trails where they hunkered and spoke
the ancient tongue, not adulterated by the romance of the French
or the clumsy amalgam of shredded sounds from the new soldiers
the giants who ignored them in the steaming light of day
but came one night, bringing strange smells, oiled steel
muzzles pointed at their faces, shoved into their empty ears
grunting and groaning in an even more grotesque tongue
leaving tears and trembling in their wake,
the torn flesh, the wounded wombs, the silken vessels
meant to be there for the milky planting of tomorrow’s seeds
not the greedy groping of the interloper’s devilish deeds
was she asking about that night, the sounds he recalled
like puppies under heavy foot, or worse, like
the madding moaning of his own sister
when someone ripped her open
not in the distant killing fields
but in the back seat of her car
not two miles from where they sat
where he ordered more beer, and
she asked those questions with her silence,
with her eyes, the questions he would never answer
not after all the beer, in all the free world,
and he was pitifully glad
they served no sushi, in Kiki’s, though
the sharpened knives were there
ready for his confessional
and the raw slaughter of truth
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
365Nectar #8 Crescent City Blues
Tues. Oct 1,2013 10:21 P.M.
In the deepest attic
the thumping blues
paint pastel portraits
of the Crescent City
In burning ripples
words slap strangers
taking refuge in Armstrong Park
Slender, **** and Shorty
growl muted tones that ravage old bones
whip thru Mid-City
and saunter thru the Garden District
all just practice to sizzle in a wild tap dance in the Quarter
High steppin Indians
march toward God
and defy gravity.
Roaring second line
being led by woman powered Pinettes Brass Band
hold rush hour traffic hostage for days
belting greasy mingling tunes
in the eye of the dusty moon
A pitch black struggle
with the old moon
liberated old souls
entangled in soaked strings
and sobbing fingers
A quintet churns and
challenges the loneliness of pain
Strumming fingers
make out with
humming strings
under a starry blue grey sky
Stomping down long black Oak-lined roads
blowing thru shotgun homes
like winter cold howling
lifting heavy weights
from shoulders
like the sun shifting against bad weather
the blues lady
open the veins
of drunken roses
Lungs full of tears
Irma holla's, cries, and moans remedies
north south east and west of a street called Desire
Oh Etta
At Last
Dim Misty light
cast a heavy shadow
on wiggling spirits
as they cast off pain
Allen Toussaint
in smokeless blaze
tips the night air
Kermit blows
Dusty blues
seducing suffering souls
bounding them to each other in bliss
Whispering around town
in a perfect velvet midnight
sweet exhalations of song birds from corner joints
dance the Ruffin groove
fiery trebles wave at people passing by
Down right ***** blues
muzzles twilight
trombones,tubas, and trumpets
lay harmony
under the harmonious thunder
of the Marsalis Masters
and low down deep
in a musty sleepless corner
is the missing Bass-man..
hung over.
Copyright ©2013 Crescent City Blues
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
Guns are everywhere in sight
Muzzles, fire and fright.
Blood running through sewers
like flooded rivers in mid-May,
when it should be running through veins.
Slain bodies once filled with life
are now filled with undeserved death.
Pain seeps through the eyes
of brutalized victims as they weep.
A mother pleads to God
with hopes He will breath life
back into her daughter's lungs
as a child stands over the rotting
bodies of bystanders,
and waves at the flies
Unrest fills the air
while fire's are burning under water
Tragedy burns the face down to a tear,
Could Hell get any hotter?
Mirages mirror terror,
Silence in broken mirrors.
It may seem that voices don't exist
in places like this,
And that a difference lies off
in the distance;
out of reach, unattainable.
But they do.
A blind man's eyes become
his hands and his ears
when he needs to see,
While the mute lack a voice,
they still find a way to say,
"Hope is never all lost."
They need to know they are not alone.
Battles are being fought all over this world.
War, famine, sexism, racism.
A fight between mother and father.
Grief for the loss a lover.
We can all relate,
in one way or another.
Ignore ignorance, become informed.
Silence does not defeat violence,
nor is strength needed to beat it.
Courage and a heart
are needed to defeat it,
along with the will to believe
it can be defeated.
Throwing punches with fingerless fists
and broken spirits can seem useless,
but more has been done
with less.
Remember, a voice with something to say
is harder to forget
than a voice
that is
silent.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
i leaned against my mother's kitchen sink
crying
six shots of whiskey deep at half passed noon
and both mutts came running
leaning their limber legs against mine
a heart-felt interspecies hug
ready and willing to catch my salty tears
upon the bridge of their snouts
so this is true love
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
After waking at dawn one morning when the wind sang
low among dry leaves in an elm
Among the red guns,
In the hearts of soldiers
Running free blood
In the long, long campaign:
Dreams go on.
Among the leather saddles,
In the heads of soldiers
Heavy in the wracks and kills
Of all straight fighting:
Dreams go on.
Among the hot muzzles,
In the hands of soldiers
Brought from flesh-folds of women--
Soft amid the blood and crying--
In all your hearts and heads
Among the guns and saddles and muzzles:
Dreams,
Dreams go on,
Out of the dead on their backs,
Broken and no use any more:
Dreams of the way and the end go on.
1.6k
How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will ----
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries ----
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour ----
Dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ----
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place
Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like hells bells miss ringers,
Like bringers miss takers,
Like ******* miss fakers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the good fellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
I miss everything.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
fleeting, as the earth to
rising sparrows,
life stretches beyond
swinging feet. in a breath,
it shrinks
to mere marbles in
a childhood pocket,
drips from faucets on
upturned faces, squinting
through joy and soap.
life rolls over sidewalks,
around first steps, grating
on scratching pavement.
*we've had our scars
more often than skinned knees*
like piano wire, life
ties tune and blood through throat
it muzzles and goads
hyena, perched vultures cackling
life crams with cracking and
static in hope, panic.
it slips,
on the outbreath
as the earth to rising sparrows.
so we all go-quiet.
only marbles, only scars.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
.
A bloodthirsty old woman you see,
a cockroach from Satan’s
“Crisis Committee”,
For long she pillaged,
children she snatched and slayed
their blood she drank and ate,
to rejuvenate.
She flayed their skin,
affixed in place on her own face,
Corona was her name,
The old hag was insane.
When her evil deeds were told,
the airplanes soared,
in aim to **** us all.
On Earth they made the poisons fall.
They had us all locked down,
with muzzles restrained,
padlocks and chains,
ankle bracelets for home detention,
false tests on prescription,
deceived and plundered,
blamed for infection,
medications proscribed,
fresh air they denied,
On our freedom they put boundaries,
halfwits, scoundrels.
And when they “eased up” on their “measures”,
the camps were full over the rim,
large - scale butchering,
looted livers and kidneys,
burning the living victims,
“to prevent the spread of infection”
evidence concealed for our own protection.
She had working hours,
sleeping before noon,
was contagious only in the afternoon.
Half the world she vaccinated,
with poisons injected,
what is going on,
you are going to see,
billions of dead bodies are yet to be!
Forget we must not,
Lest not forgive,
Let’s arrest and sentence them to death,
they should not be left to live!
.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
Copyright © by Saša Milivojev, 2020 - 2022 - All Rights Reserved
Jun 14, 2022
Jun 14, 2022 at 6:40 PM UTC
The mailbox that bears my name was filled with notes from God's secretary,
each notarized with an antioxidary,
regretting to inform me
| a meeting cannot be yet arranged,
{that} the schedule will just not allow |
And as my eyes palavered with each and every flowing word,
{The clerk had impeccable penmanship}
the sorrow hit me like a God ****** hammer,
falling flaming from the gloomy clouds,
splitting my skull without a sound,
and if I could accurately express exasperated stammering,
my letters in return would be that-
So to temporarily occupy my infinite time,
dine do I, on plates of leaves, as the guest of hounds from Hell,
And O! they do not bellow but whimper quietly.
They softly said as I was fed to second-guess my piety,
but whether they meant to be so dour it was difficult to tell.
So as I ate my mind escaped and I fell and fell and fell
(not unlike a hop/skip/jump straight into a well.)
The hounds with zeal! they laughed at me
as I tumbled into darkness.
O! how lonely falling is, it can only end in pain.
As I swirled into the pit I see my past is feigned.
The darkness then began to waste away as light unfurled,
and fast and sure my flailings ceased, and I landed on my porch.
The force my feet had bent the boards and my mailbox erupted.
The letters God had sent to me fluttered coyly in the breeze.
I remembered how the lamb I had eaten was most oily,
and I vomited-
But all that came from my tired organs was the milk of human kindness.
I rose and stood la'statuesque,
frozen,
like a victim of a Gorgon-
My limbs then quit;
I acquiesced,
and fell again onto my porch.
I could hear the cackling that drifted from the matted muzzles of the hounds,
hiding in the shrubs nearby.
I tried to yell
but hounds from Hell
can only hear a lie;
I whispered, "Yes, I'm doing fine, I ask you, don't assist..."
The laughing stopped a'suddenly and silence took ahold.
I lied, I lied!
I lied as I were dead.
The hounds understood and turned to dust, vanished with the wind.
O! how lonely falling is, the landing ostracizes,
and there I sat, a porch pariah,
until the mailman returned with the sun,
bringing bills and notes from God,
and soon my mailbox will again be filled |
| And confound me like a divining rod in a boat
When everything points to true and right,
abandon do I all my hope |
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 12:54 PM UTC
To the girl who lies awake
Who cannot remember a time
She wasn't crying
She wasn't aching
She wasn't struggling
To breathe, to love, to live
To the girl
Who cannot see
Through the broken glass
Thick with the words of others
Who has been called
Nothing
Worthless
Annoying
Or sensitive
To the girl who has been told
You are not strong
You are not smart
You are not capable
To the girls who have been told
To keep their mouths shut
To obey
To conform
To stop fighting
To the WOMEN
Because we should stop
Calling you girls
We should stop limiting your potential
Minimizing your pain
Generalizing your struggles
To the WOMEN
With voices
And opinions
And emotions
To the WOMEN
Who fight day in and day out
To the WOMEN
Who have been told
Your pain is less than another's
Your story is not important
Your testimony is not
Enough
To all of the women
Who have seen and felt and wanted
Who have loved and hated
Who have been hurt
Oppressed
And smothered
To the women who remember
The very last day of their girlhood
With painful clarity
To the women who hear us
And cannot speak
To the women who have been waiting
For this movement
This is for the women who have watched us
Screaming at the top of our lungs
Fighting for this moment
For change
For a new world where our daughters
May walk with their heads held high
Where our sisters
May march like warriors
And KNOW
That there is fire in their blood
Where our mothers
May watch us manipulate our destiny
And carve out our dreams among the stars
So the we may sit in thrones
Alongside them
Because we are mighty
We are fierce
And we are where we are today
Because of the sacrifices they made
The women before us
Suffering
Despairing
And fighting
We will not give up
We will not give in
This is to all of my sisters
Women who feel the same calling
Who feel the defiance
Burning in their eyes
In the faces of their oppressors
This is to my sisters
Who feel they do not have the voice
Or the strength
Or the will
To keep fighting
We will fight for you
We will carry you
We will be your voice
We are no longer alone
And fear no longer has a say here
Time's up
And the time is now
We will rip the muzzles from our mouths
And we will scream
Until the streets run red
With the truth we live
Every
Single
Day
We will not be silenced
We will not be stopped
We will ferociously
And furiously
And fearlessly
Fight
The bonds will break
The earth will rattle beneath our feet
And we will bring a change with us
That will ripple through time
So that our granddaughters may sing
A song full of freedom
This is to all of you
A promise
An invitation
I will fight for you
My voice will join the millions of others
And I will stand
Until my legs fail
And my body crumbles
And even then I will still cry out for you
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
Autumn is here
A season with two faces
One blows a farewell kiss
To her late friend August
The other adjusts his spectacles
And looks for the surefooted
Arrival of the cold months
Orange and gold falls from the trees
These petals and leaves
Resemble to true likeness the pollen
Coated bees that buzz and
Construct the giant honey combs
That little bears love so much
Trunks and branches of trees
Sigh away the dry whisper
From Summer’s heat and
Thieve away any trace of water
That within their thoughts
Reach they may sense
From this thieving of
Liquid pure
Comes verdant mosses
Those in jest proclaim sole dominion
Over the apple’s green
The deer venture through the
Rains of petals and leaves
Sniffing with their muzzles the
Tiny mushrooms
That escaped the underground when rain
First touched soil surface
Squirrels chase each other around
And up the trunks of soaring oaks
And with their teeth
Collect nuts for when desire
To go search is not a question
Orange and gold
Falls from the trees
What falling wonders are these?
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
It's 11:20am in OHare
and I'm here with Sam Adams'
cardboard cut-out,
sipping his hard work,
chasing my breakfast,
picking up where Starbucks left off.
But really, I'm avoiding the tired,
unenthusiastic bodies nesting at my gate,
with their dilapidated muzzles,
with their deadpan expressions,
with these head-and-shoulders of
malcontent- of brewing disappointment-
floating morosely above their respective
boarding passes, passports,
and food court receipts
clutched in cranky knuckles.
And so here I am, sitting at
Facade, raising a second glass
with cardboard Adams,
and I kinda have to ****
and I really have to ***
but there's no way in hell
I'm joining the rest of my flight.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
While I see trains pass a hour in my past are hoping that I can rebuild a fallen staff.
Its 1 o'clock no police men to decant a crime committed by henchmen watching startled for the love of cash.
How many snakes are camouflaged in this land of mine planting landmines to realign a **** boys aim.
Kind a strange to live a life blind folded in areas a beef is cooked cause your a project of the innocents.
How should I remember this, a partition signed by those that are ignorant in a enormous clique of amateur extortionist.
Low as hell snorting short lines of drug substances getting high off there own supply of sugar cain.
A long range of rage walking down blocks ****** a long list of coke heads on cold streets overdosed.
Shots of comatoses, breaking oxygen flowing through my brain feeling deranged about the faint choices made.
Regarding a future for a young boy to walk amongst endangered jungles, force fields and muzzles for a dog trained to ****
Steal made to be loaded by bullets filled gunpowder for war showers filled with wannabe gangstahs.
It goes like that as well as United States embacies remembering a war stopping time from 39 to 45.
>>>UNDER CONSTRUCTION<<<
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
the oppressor's law
muzzles a dissenting voice
lest it speak of truth
May 7, 2024
May 7, 2024 at 11:29 PM UTC
Little cunning foxes jumping over bushes,
slaughtering the sheep I have been counting in my sleep.
I hand-pick plump raspberries while I watch the foxes
rip out their throats, all of our lips stained red & ******
My hazy sepia toned dream shimmers as I sit in the grass,
sipping on a glass of arsenic laced strawberry lemonade.
The cool sun hugs my skin and my collarbones
that jut and cut my finger as I brush a hair off my shoulder.
I look down at the pin ***** absentmindedly and glance
at my foxes as their black eyes gaze upon me wildly.
Magenta stained muzzles set in stone as they begin to roam
surrounding the circumference of my skirt, snapping their jaws.
Ebony teeth tearing me like cloth, jerking my body like
a frail little rag doll dancing with these fiendish, lovely beasts.
They leave me quietly, bones picked nearly clean, waiting now
for flowers to bloom in my hollow chest and my empty eyes.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Its baroque eyelashes still obscured
By the vapid, nocturnal turmoil,
My city rises from sleep in the morning,
To the acrid smell of taverns
Opened too early,
Where garrulous, ***** drunks
Resume their heated quarrels.
My city awakens at dawn,
In the suave perfume of flowers clouded by dust;
Those tender, resigned cupolas, waiting
For the midday summer sun, to ooze over them.
Bent backs and furrowed foreheads,
Large crowds trotting on the sidewalks,
Greet each other absent-minded, on the fly,
Hurrying on, forgetting their pitiable heritage, their history,
When, thirsty for blood, their ancestors,
Greedily slaughtered each other,
―In the name of mother country and of different Gods―,
Under the shadows of rival cathedrals.
It took me a long time to be able to discern
The time corroded voice of my city,
But today I understand its madness and its error;
I cross it lovingly, with a lithe step,
And I am saddened by the sight of lifeless, white kittens,
Lying on the pavement, snuffed out by the spirits of the night,
Red poppies blossoming from their muzzles,
In the morning light.
Flavia Cosma from * Bucharest Tales*
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
Legs like lead,
We trudge through Monday’s trenches,
Carrying a pack
I’m sure weighs too much.
We shoulder the weight
And push forward onto Tuesday,
Gritting our teeth,
Feet sore to the touch.
On Wednesday,
The time falls like shells,
Carrying payloads
That detonate hour by hour,
Until Thursday,
When the guns are spent,
Cooling their muzzles
As they nurse their power.
Friday comes round,
And finds us alive in the trench,
And we’re ordered home
To replenish in peace.
Of this war we keep fighting
We prepare in retreat;
The glorious charge
For the generals gold fleece.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like bells miss ringers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like necrophiliacs miss graves,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the goodfellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like how the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
Like a phone misses a ring
Like every misses thing.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
Drum Beat
03/16/2019
Distant,
it's another land
Someone else's war
Rumblings carried on the wind
Too faint
Far
Not my land
Still someone else's war
Now I can hear the explosions
Interspersing the beat
Near
It's distinct
Still not my war
Amongst a thousand
The sound of a single bullet
Close
Deafening explosions
Cracking, snapping, buzzing
By the millions leaving the muzzles
Whaling, screaming and even the whimpering
But the beat is constant
The beat is constant
The whimpering, the screaming,
The buzzing and the snapping
Those explosions they are
All in my head, and now
It's my inescapable war
And the drum beats
Constantly
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 7:35 PM UTC
i am not a poet.
i do not take thoughts,
spin them on the page,
and give them breath
the way a little man
spins gold from straw.
i am not a dreamer.
i do not ponder the stars,
wonder if they cry
or smile or laugh
or if the sheep dreams
of androids and muzzles.
i am not romantic,
with ideals of flowers—
carnations, forget-me-nots,
daisies—or letters of blood
with the alphabet
blazing a hole in the heart.
i am a person;
just that.
just that.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 5:16 AM UTC
The day begins
And "God: The Television Show" screams,
"Its feeding time,
Shut the **** up,
Pay your taxes,
Pray to the dead feds,
Don't look this way,
Don't believe that way.
Stay docile and keep your
MUZZLES ON!"
"My way is the right way
and there is no such thing as left"
My gut tells me God
Doesn't watch her own show.
I've turned left,
And I've been left
To my devices.
Death is tomorrow,
Life is today,
Now.
Here, crooning symmetry,
I'll stay.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC