"parasitical" poems
Ignorant, spiteful, closed-minded and afraid-
The text on which you built your life, the same that you betrayed.
Holy, self-righteous, yet wholly hypocritical.
Sanctimonious bullies- bigoted and parasitical.
A veteran in the land, which to protect, he went to fight,
but for him it seems equality is not a given right.
Ridiculed, scorned- filthy sinner, heathen-
But who created him this way if not the lord that you believe in?
Your eyes are darkened. They're tinted with hate.
Your ears? Too filled to listen to debate.
But in this surge of civil rights that before has been denied,
you will be the prejudiced fool that history leaves behind.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
I
To-night, a first movement, a pulse,
As if the rain in bogland gathered head
To slip and flood: a bog-burst,
A **** breaking open the ferny bed.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
And arms and legs are thrown
Beyond your gradual hills. I caress
The heaving province where our past has grown.
I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder
That you would neither cajole nor ignore.
Conquest is a lie. I grow older
Conceding your half-independent shore
Within whose borders now my legacy
Culminates inexorably.
II
And I am still imperially
Male, leaving you with pain,
The rending process in the colony,
The battering ram, the boom burst from within.
The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column
Whose stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum
Mustering force. His parasitical
And ignorant little fists already
Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked
At me across the water. No treaty
I foresee will salve completely your tracked
And stretchmarked body, the big pain
That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again
4.6k
**** you and your little intelligentsia
group therapy sessions
basing its roots in caveman cartesian
theoretic - i know you know that
the blank canvas are the ********
and that artists work on that -
because normally grey citizens are no
blank canvas but a subordination -
but still, **** you, why not concentrate
on the blank economics of a beggar
to exercise your little intelligentsia
get-together sessions?
there are less social securities in that
department of inquiry -
mental health and art... what's that?
you jealous of the caverns of the mind
crafting an escape pod to your
****** exercise of mechanisation -
**** on me, crosswords! su doku!
all matters of encryption!
endear your lack of creativity with
the synonymousness act of creativity
decoding encryption,
because you obviously can't encrypt
on a complete lack of encoding parameters (blanks).
you can't encrypt originality unless
you start with encrypting nothingness
with stars... and how often does that happen?
perhaps once... i care to make you
feel something akin to bombastic,
a football stadium size of appreciation lost -
skull kickabout with commentary:
to create the post-relativity warp
of quantity-quality, akin to space-time,
for indeed the answer to science's
space-time hyphenated couplet
is quantity-quality - and that's hardly a measurable
consideration, since there are too many particulars
involved, i.e. too many individuals, choices
and disparaging wills - too many particulars
in the hyphenated couplet quantity-quality,
since science is offering universal breadcrumbs
with its space-time rationalisation
for each and every for a share in populating
an insignificance, whether on a personal
scale or an impersonal / collective scale -
and both are indeed expressed,
the famous parasitical comparison found
in too many numbered essays by individuals -
but still humanism has a quantity-quality parabola,
while science has its space-time parabola,
and indeed both in dip, provide waves,
for example the former with Plato and Neoplatonism,
and for example the latter with
the revisionists of Einstein - the revisionist excavators
arguing precision to 100% proof of measurement
in exponential scaling of the mind theorising
a bus trip to Saturn like a bus-trip parallel-akin
to a 1 mile trip on the same vehicle in the earthly atmosphere.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
I see you in the sky, at the park,
The beach, the trees, and everything existing.
My eyes glow with vengeance,
Me, that one and lonely lark.
These parasitical souls always stare.
Everyone can see, yet they say the same thing.
Infecting all those with a heart is your daily hobby.
By this time, the deepest crater forms
In my stomach, yet even so,
do not keep your mouth shut.
Freedom glows in the dark,
And it is pitch black. These
Intoxicated, pseudo democratized zombies
Engulfed the entire country.
Yes, one man is one vote
Is a romantic belief that infects most of us.
Forging a sincere democratic thought,
Was it passion for those buried centuries in the past?
U.S.A is the place to be if you have money,
Yet leave the weary and weak,
Hungry, and weak. America, certainly is no honey.
Riches of crazed beings is what they seek.
To feel any bliss at all, I must pay tithe.
Pass the furnace to my soul.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
I have come through
the wildfires and
abject poverty.
The sardine days filled
with ghoulish women and
cowardly men.
Now, I have four
walls, and a table to
write at.
I've decorated my castle:
pictures and tapestries,
a raven figurine sitting
on a stump by the aloe vera.
I have a bookshelf from
the curb; all my
favorites are on it.
I turned my brother onto,
A Confederacy of Dunces
I hear him laugh from his
4 walls.
He escaped the
parasitical nights and the
neon souled undead.
It's a great life if
you don't succumb to
the crowd and the slugs that
just slide on through.
Now, it's the simple
things that bring me pleasure:
house plants, coffee brewing,
and the sound of my
neighbor watering his grass.
I think I will get a goldfish.
All perfect and orange.
And on the fringe, I hear
that feral cat, howling in
the night, without his
4 walls.
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 3:52 PM UTC
Here is the situation,
As unfortunate as it is,
You no longer have a significant part of my heart.
Once there used to be a time, twice a time, when thoughts
bombarded my mind and chances were they concerned you.
But now my eyes, as reluctant as they are, can see you,
You unintentional enchanter.
You accidental seducer.
You oblivious snarer of infatuated captivation.
You are the alpha of canker blossoms.
You are the epitome of everything that frustrates me.
I used to live in a house where the
Walls were your voice and your face.
A mental institution in which I was never voluntarily admitted.
A house of mirrors in which I couldn’t see myself or anybody else,
My thirst for your infatuation reflected,
Mocking smiles of every kind.
I cried blackened tears that fell to the
Ground and then flew into the sky like
Bleached ravens, like childhood dreams,
So carefully groomed by the mommies and the daddies,
Collapsing into little liquid drops dripping through the desperate holes of a strainer.
I cried because you seemed to find it
Necessary to seek interests in other girls
And never me.
I am not a bruised apple;
I am not a crushed autumn leaf;
I am not a discarded baby blanket;
And I am not unworthy.
So why in god’s oh so deemed holy name
Have you not seen me?
Or maybe you see it right on my face,
Like I’m a displayed canvas as easy to
See as red blushed from a pale, void surface,
And you are just messing with me.
Playing with me
As I am your spaniel and you can treat me as such?
Like I am a doll whose string you pull
And receive a pathetic voice pleading,
Love me love me.
Am I below your standard of interesting?
What could possibly be so wrong with or about me that repulses you?
Not you really, but more your interest in me.
At this moment I am wound tighter with exasperation
More than any moment before.
You will always be a tug of war in my life.
If only I could simply expel you,
The nuisance you are.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 9:04 PM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
A tremble begins to settle on seething skin
She is a maker of parasitical kin
It does not consume like a dancing fire
But it amplifies with a vision of curdling desire
Just like a mother, it grows like a molding seed
A miracle of the asexual spirit in a world of greed
Abrupt in nature, beloved by its own flesh and blood
It left an intangible mark inscribed on her soul in disguise of a hunch
A precautionary tale serves a special prevention of the ugly occurrence
What a marvelous delight it becomes when it reverts as a guide, full of opulence
But not in a sense of monetary value, rather a calculated demise
How does one understand a raw creation of wrath?
What will she become after venturing the thorny path?
Does an inquiry halts her progress in activating fury?
Is there an object of her ire that requires a narrative of her mutiny?
Why does the poison never spread like death in a rush?
Can she possibly raise an army to march with an uncontrollable urge of violence?
When will she endure the thinning of her lips to match the peace of a deafening silence?
Is there a warning to keep herself intact for the coming apocalyptic days?
Will it save the dormant history of her being through enactment of saving face?
The question remains unanswered, but the fulfillment of the instrumental vengeance shall prevail
The inappropriate conception is almost complete to its term
A note emerges from an acidic confinement for the preparation of a womanly stern
This clump of a girl is not a shameful creation for the sake of tragedy
If anything, the child's fulfilling rage will cleanse her ancestors as a token of remedy
There is no reminder of a continuing paternity names on her birth
No need for prophetic visions as she strikes down the Earth
An abundant offerings on her behalf shall never satisfy her
As the melting iron starts to sizzle the plumper skin, the blinding nostalgia of rage tastes better
She has no patience for warnings to initiate an appropriate plan
The hour of her sustainable war has begun
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 11:59 AM UTC
My emotions are parasitical.
They drain the sparkle from my eyes,
leaving nothing but a smiling shell
of a hollow face.
My pain stems from the opportunities.
Whether they’re taken, or not,
mind empty of thought:
belief of being free
reality of being caught.
People experience pain differently.
I might have a parasite,
But you could have a false knight,
Or suffer from a wolf bite
Feelings bottled, dynamite.
My emotions are parasitical.
But, I’m still here.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
Was Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens'
Christmas Carol purely fictitious?
No, Scrooges live today,
Equally greedy, cold and ambitious.
They represent Scrooge before
He earned our admiration and saw
That human compassion came only after
His ice-cold heart had begun to thaw.
His transformation showed him his former
Cruel disregard for humanity
And let him see that miserliness
Was nothing but a heartless insanity.
Modern Scrooges fail to see
The light of compassion that brightly outshines them.
Their greed prevents them from seeing the moral
Bankruptcy that clearly defines them.
They couldn't care less about
The hard-working and struggling masses.
Their main concern is that each law
That benefits the wealthy passes.
Some of these Scrooges you will find
Working in Congress, eagerly serving
Wealthy donors who give them money
And feel as though they're more deserving.
Creating laws to make their pockets
Overflow: that's their aim.
To them the parasitical poor
Deserve bitter contempt and blame.
One wonders if these greedy misers
Find it hard to resist the temptation
Of saying, "Then why not let them die
And decrease the surplus population?"
“Aren't there workhouses?” and “Aren't there prisons?”
Are what these Scrooges appear to say.
“Concerns of the poor are not our business;
Why can’t they just go away?”
Ebenezer Scrooge was lucky:
His transformation showed him the light.
Will wealthy Scrooges running this country
Discover compassion and be less tight?
-by Bob B (12-28-17)
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
a year later, I still want to reclaim
our violet and jagged forever catastrophe
and return to our attempt to name
the space between the moon and wherever this is
I want to know if they were right about you, fully
they said you were arrogant, but to me
you were almost entirely sewn by parasitical magic
and powerful, you had fingers that held all the answers and sometimes,
held me
you could roar deception but you could only
bring yourself to whisper the truth
lightyears away, you told me I was all you belonged to
lightyears away
after you left, the space was
flat like the floor of a jetway
and sharp like the pop of my ears on the way down to home
we expected too much of each other in different ways
you wanting closeness, and me, just wanting
trying to understand and live in the space
the space between the moon and wherever this is
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
Isolation feels like a cold word,
Maybe that’s why stand here alone
in my frigid iceberg
A prison far worse than
Albatross could ever be
A place where there is every type of lock
But not a single key
Permafrost bars cage
A person so frozen
Yet blazing with rage
I am surrounded by people
But they are only reminders
That my stay is not peaceful
Isolation is a disease,
But everyone but the person infected
Dies away.
A virus that is perfected
It targets not the physical
But the mental state
Sanity dropping at critical rate
It really is parasitical!
Isolation is a cold-hearted sickness,
But there is warmth and a cure.
Permafrost can be melted
And diseases endured.
Find your fire
And burn through those bars
Because once you find who melts the iceberg
You find who you really are.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
I feel her pain and hope for more
Her silence echoes in satisfaction
There is no blood or Gore
amidst just as much unfiltered action
Rights are read once not twice
Eyes roll and chains twist
Parasitical men attach like lice
Words cloud eyes in rose colored mist
The swan strikes silently a thief tonight
Running free and wandering far
Obedience returns though, at first light
Alert to headlights on every car
And when she returns to dismay
And learns of tyranny and ruin
Shell still loves where she may
The cold air not just now blowing in
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
Now I awake at the eve of my daemonic existence
Which we had to abort
On my crown lies a crown of barbs
Unfortunately no light
Raising my forgiving sight for the last time
The only thing I see is my dark wright
Vomiting misconception at my filthy sins
United by serpentine despair
Unanimously designed by a rogue contempt
And yet instantaneously
For temerarious to bother with such vast wisdom
And yet veracious
**Thus destined a dark decent
A blackened spiral
For a blank memory
I look as the darkness consumes my every breathe
Already swallowed by the hatred smoked by fear
I feel the hell fire
Like tears rolling down my body
I am cut chest to toe
The shadows seep in
Vile filth exalting heavenly pleasures
I can not cleanse myself
For all of the scourges I locked away
My shadow is liberated
As it goes, as it always shall
The quasi heroic act of self mutilation
Reanimates their dark possession
Again morbid licentiousness
They found their host and reached parasitical intent
Blackened by serious lust
Tumultuous in the hearts of all who have fallen
All of their jaws hinging malevolently
For the cursing how to behave
No imminence in my decay
I deserve nothing by curdling laughter
I have no cause, no war
My skin blackened by the fires of doubt
Forget my neurotic existence
And the face of the man you fear
For the last time I scream
All of my attempts hallowed
By the fear of being isolated
Abandoned, my scars still leaking
The blackened blood into the heavens
Each drop a life wasted
During this my light is extinguished
A smile appears on a split face**
One final scream
And everything I know vanishes
Somewhere a heart beats a final time
I despise my world
I wasn't created for it
Alas...
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 2:13 AM UTC
We’re drift dots...
Our bodies are bulletins behaving badly, running when we feel free– [afraid of our news feeds]...
With nowhere to hide, we’re learning psychological acrobatics to climb ahead of us inside...
With half our child’s eye missing, we’re mending and pretending, eyes set on our marvel...
Here, these humble bumble bees, clumsy and dignified, redefine...
Because there is more to us than our dull diaries suggest; than these pressured, parasitical playgrounds repress...
As we’re turned into clones in these city messes, we’re reminded of home in the simplest of places...
Our hyper-perceptive, cybernetic surge is tearing through us, and we’re drift dots searching, scattering timeless new love.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 6:11 PM UTC
It's far beyond perception
Or even resolve
Enticed by redemption
Their parasitical call
We draw less conclusions
Blind in duress
The bloodshed solution
Another day in the west...
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
The concept of time always baffles me..
Days and nights, dawns n dusks..!
Nothing seems to make sense..
The real grain has to be set free..
From its parasitical husks!
My mind is a constant battle..
The memory knows just two times..
Before I loved you.
After YOU never did!
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 5:26 AM UTC
The scorching mid noon heat breathing down our backs
The cooler night wind nursing our scorched palms and heated hearts,
No choice but to move into imagined havens, against,
But, nurturing the cursed heat.
Our souls may rise up against, in anguish, but our voice
Wavers, in response to it’s tempt,
Content in Our Silence; rather than forbear, forthwith
In humorous discontent and fear.
No escape, no peace from the all-seeing heat haze, whatsoever
All action futile, but still hope; parasitical, in all circumstances.
That our latter kindred may be proud, “That though they failed,
Yet, they did struggle.”
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
Those dead, are abandoned
We’ve cast them to the lands of
Irrelevant, their struggle and suffering
Were in vain and useless sacrifice
Their progress was nothing
The society called them sick
We are the truly sick
To cast their lives to the shadow lands
And when the dawn of our ignorance
Glitters across our ****** claws, and
Illuminates the parasitical holy worm
That’s in this black societal vessel
We will know our true monstrosities
That is ourselves
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
no longer sheathed by the living skin of the land
ancients of the deep shriek in unholy abhorrence
as they make their rapturous ascent to the heavens,
seeking not salvation that they’ve forsaken,
but the evisceration of a former home.
it is malice not earthly tar that stains
bulging scleras and hissing pulses
placated only by wine tastes of sin.
these apparatuses remain ever silent
to eternally bask in the presence of Her.
Her who invokes the name of salvation.
Her, melichrous.
Her, scintillant.
composed of polished crystal embellishments
must have the creature once relinquished
the bipedal form to humanity in exchange
for spherical inconvenience.
renounced and disdained
by the possessors of illusory superiority
the mousy predecessors of righteousness
trod lightly through emotional labyrinths
only seeking to sate their vampiric empathy.
Her seeks this suffering of the corrupt
where the must be bound in crude scales
packed amongst their parasitical kin.
alexia unbound wreaks havoc in their stead
manifesting in serpentine coils which match
the tongue slithers out cryptic hymns.
Her must and will be subject to judgement,
durum hoc est sed ita lex scripta est.
and does this serpent mimic the rhythmic
folding to suit its needs as Her is bound
once more to the Mire
never to breach the heavenly dome
void of living skin wrappings.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
I didn't think
it would be
like this
wandering waiting
pacing and impatiently stating
I'm not supposed to be here.
My hands
stopped trembling
years ago.
Separated
from the rest
Its for the best
they say
as they force the pills
down every day
I'm not supposed to be here.
Every word
confirms
my inability to conform
Imprisoned physically
for in-dependency
my mind
does not need
societies'
hypocritical parasitical
way of thought.
I'm not supposed to be here.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
Parasitical
This brain of mine
Steadily being eaten
By the worms
Of times
Yet still
We are of truth
I am of flesh
I am a breath
Away from death
It uses me
My poetic muse
The words flow free
Aesthetically bruised
From above and beyond
From without and within
Thoughts come together
And impossibly blind
Stanza after stanza
Line after line
Each verse a maze
A map
Of a poet’s mind
I am but a
Issue stricken poet
With a brilliant muse
Blessed to be in a world
So easily amused
..............
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 4:43 AM UTC