"pitchforks" poems
Grab your pitchforks run him outta town,
only because his skin is brown.
If he knocks on the door don't let him in,
only because he lacks white skin.
Punch his face with a bang and a whack
only because his skin is black.
Pull out your gun shoot him in the head,
only because he grows his dreads.
Lock him in jail for nothing bad,
call him a loser and a deadbeat dad.
If you don't think you've gone too far,
you're wrong, your soul's as black as coal tar.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 10:37 PM UTC
She’s the last of the fairy tales.
The mobs came with pitchforks and torches.
The ashes of the golden era stains her skin.
Her magic dwindled, wounded by the sins of man.
She seeks not revenge, nor justice.
She seeks punishment.
I have been the guardian of her heart;
A heart she feels she no longer needs.
There will be a day where it beats again.
Not this day.
On this day she waits in the dark,
Waiting for the day her memory is forgotten;
The day her tragedy becomes a myth.
On that day, reckoning will come
To remind them their cruelty is unequalled
By the spirit of a fallen star.
On that day, I will be her harbinger.
On that day, I will resurrect the memory
They wished would stay buried in the depths.
On that day, the hearts of man will cry for mercy,
Only to fall upon deaf ears...
Because I made a promise.
Cross my heart, she’ll never die.
Look your devil in her eyes.
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 11:51 AM UTC
.
Watching the rise and the fall of a kingdom
Walls once rebuilt again tumble the ground
Allowing the beasties free reign in the village
Bellowing out o’er the wickedest sound
Pacing the streets, seeking out bits of garbage
Leaving their stains on the innocent few
Leering in windows where children are hiding
Tender young things and so easy to chew
Thieves in the night lurk about come the morning
Stealing the sun at the break of the dawn
Drinking of sewage a’ flow in the gutters
Checking off names as the many are gone
Peering ‘round corners, down alleys, in shadows
Seeking the favor of all who do grieve
Laughing in spite of the torment now growing
Licking their lips in the hope you believe
Roaming in groups so the followed outnumber
Say what you will for the king does not hear
Lost in his throne made of mirrors that flatter
Shivering, cowering, caving to fear
Deaf to the villagers asking for reason
Blind to the pillage befalling this land
Dumb, well I guess that just goes without saying
Nary a care what the people demand
Feasting on turkey, potatoes and gravy
Raising a glass to the enemy proud
Taking a stand against those who support him
Locking the front doors while yelling aloud
***“Carry your torches, your pitchforks, your honor
It matters not for this evil shall win
Even when gone there are echoes of anger
Lingering on till they come back again
Give them your all, what you’ve poured your heart into
Down on your knees, bow to them one and all
Step over rock and the piles of rubble
This castle will stand even when the walls fall
Shout all you like as no change is forthcoming
Accept it or flee, you think I give a ****
When you are gone many more will replace you
Now pass those peas and a slice of that ham”***
So roam the beasties, their teeth ever sharpened
Fanning the flames as so many are burned
Tearing apart what the people envisioned
Silly to think that they somehow had learned
Nothing so happy with no ever after
Always the same, it will happen again
But unlike some other long winded stories
Sadly in this I can not say “the end”
Watching the rise and the fall of a kingdom
Walls once rebuilt again tumble the ground
Thankfully I can peruse from a distance
Witnessing all without hanging around
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 9:25 AM UTC
In a Somerville coffeeshop, waiting for his single origin light roasted Pour over,
Frankenstein reads a philosophy magezine, seductively planted by the lounging area.
"One lives two lives."
The magezine reads,
"That which one spends in their physical body,
and that which begins the moment one leaves that body,
lasting until all witness to ones first life has spoken its final word".
The baristas eyes widen when he sees Frankenstein,
The barista says nothing.
He knows better than to raise the dead.
Frankenstein is often confused
for his monster.
Condensation rises between crocheted mittens, Frankenstein Lingers on the Cherry notes in his Coffee, while it combs icicles into his snow white mustache.
He likes this new version of an afterlife. It empowers him to take advantage of the time he has now, to make his second life last as long as possible.
He's in the middle of this thought
When his face slams against ***** snowbank.
Dog **** mixing into the icicles of his moustache.
A familiar mob of torches and pitchforks only see the monster.
They take turns kicking.
Kicking
Frankenstein wakes to a lynching.
When he lives
He is not a monster.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
On the way back all these thoughts poured,
Leaving me more opaque than when I left.
All the fears resurfaced with their horns and pitchforks...
No, I didn't tread through this tedious hell just to fail.
And then a voice said:
"Facing your demons, and the ones you thought you left behind, never was easy. You get scared and overwhelmed, but that's why you pray. "
...and that's why suddenly, we could all move again.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
My family called me a demon
That my love is just a phase
They don't know what I'm feeling
And if they pray it'll go away
I'm a boy trapped in a woman
You're a woman trapped in a boy
When we cry every night til morning
They'll just call us paranoid
I will die someone other than myself
If I can't live the way I need to
I'm not a demon praying on someone else
I'm just a human-being like you
Someone fell in love with me on Sunday
And I fell in love with them too
We decided to get married on Monday
We're chasing dreams, old and brand new
Then one night, we opened the window
To see pitchforks and torches set afire
The pain is deep but little do they know
A few drops of rain can never put out desire
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
In an unforgiving world
of naysayers
and backstabbers
and depraved liars
and false prayers
where
you have to look around you
before
you can dare to look ahead
in an unforgiving world
where the pitchforks are raised
at the slightest of mistakes
in this unforgiving world
I possess
a poison
far more potent
it's called love.
and darling,
you're not getting any.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
Bureaucrats and clergymen
differ only in doctrine.
But their altars steam
with the blood
of untold innocents.
The Pope, Stalin, and ******
all canvass the people
with warped visions
of Paradise.
(Oh, Celan, you saw it
too well.)
Bloodletting for peace...
Pitchforks stoke the fires
to make dainty foot warmers
for Moloch and Midas.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
This is not atrocity
This is the basement
This is the sea receding like lips to reveal tooth-like shells
Amongst the bullet casings and corpses felled leaving the boats
This is the sand like an inverted moat around the
Kingdom at sea, and this is the Remainder.
Yet they remain jubilantly-
Is this what being jubilant means?
Chamomile anklets adorning a hanged child.
This is not atrocity,
Ignorance wielding pitchforks and fire.
Anger alight and hostility riled
This is not atrocity.
This is not far from this reality;
Remember this child-
And the mob piled like tinder on themselves
Convincing carrion feeders
And unimpeded breeders that
Halt the march of science that
This is not atrocity.
The certain hot song by which Earth is greeted
Has an immediately recognizable tune.
And
This is not atrocity;
It sounds more like ****** ******
But I can't hear it
And I have no fear anymore
I open my eyes to another routine killing, and I know-
This is atrocity-
But a necessary one.
It's hardly enough to stay alive
And as I and we strive for
Money and coffee and love,
I and we let
atrocity
enter us.
Climb into us like a hand does a glove,
or a puppet.
It is not nature;
Nor fate;
And one needn't be dead
to appreciate the ability to open the senses
and actually sense.
And this,
I am certain,
Is not an atrocity
May 21, 2010
May 21, 2010 at 8:30 PM UTC
Today bears the weight of erstwhile trepidation.
Uncertainties exhumed only to be hung up as ominous flags.
Black as night my widowed heart paraded through the procession.
Garbed in ash encrusted, sequinned frock, hemmed train all tattered in rags.
Herald the face with no features yet obscured behind a chiffon veil.
In hands, a bouquet of black roses, worm-eaten to the stems.
The mourning sun only gave the weakest glow,
feeble attempt to rejuvenate all that is stale;
to imbue the shimmer back into forsaken jewels and dulled gems.
Her entourage kept up with heavy feet; all grim and sullen.
Also faceless... Armed with pitchforks and torches.
Today they will draw much; having thirst for crimson.
Today they witness her death as the black parade marches.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
hello, executioner
hello starlight, hello pillager
make me a village
give me pitchforks give me haybales i will give you a show
brand new, glitter stuck shiny on the sign out front crying havoc
crying
"hello executioner lead me to the
slaughter"
you menace
isnt this a sight?
twenty-five love letters to a guillotine and a girl you killed
seven hundred years ago
advertising strategy number thirty-four: **** your neighbor
**** everyone you know and then **** yourself
are you jealous? are your eyes open?
i can hear your nose bleeding from here
(twenty-five love letters addressed to a dead person
oh god oh god,
can your hear the water rush)
the disposal is running in the sink
"what are you a robot"
stop talking about anarchy this isnt a drug bust
two white balloons and blood on the ceiling
haven't you ever seen a dead body before?
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Goin down
Drowning out the sting
Salt water leaks
Burns like holy water
Not just from the cuts in my skin
In my spit
My eyes
Kept the straight jackets to make my masks
****** stitches, most favored gloss
Demonize pill popping even though it keeps the ******* behind the gates
Those ******* taste horrible with *****
Instead of getting **** faced to forget the artificial praise
Just throw em to the sea
Make sure it's the dead
Sleeping with the fishes and the girl I used to be
Better yet I’ll jump in hoping this is just a dream
Either its me dying in now or waking from vivid nothingness
But will it even be my own bed
His bed
Her bed
What the **** are these stains
Option 3: choking on thread and barfing up empty stomachs and swallowing my pride
Playing with fuckboys like a rejected barbie doll, a hallow head growing rhino horns
One hell of a drug
One hell of a *****
Pitchforks not hot enough to boil off plastic flesh
Next thing to bleach are the eyes
Can’t stand her disappointed eyes
My eyes
Hellbent *****
Reflecting vanity in broken glass
What the point for a window with no soul
Divine Frankiestien
That's monster I’ve become
No
The monster they made me to be
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
Somber silence,
The simple sound of violence;
And truth be told,
It's my desire
So let it be
More than a memory;
As it fills your soul,
Feed the fire
Tempting flames,
Chaotic games,
Made insane,
And left in pain
And isn't it so beautiful,
And isn't it so right,
And isn't it pure justice
To watch them burn at night?
So light your matches,
So grab your torches,
Man your pitchforks,
We're gonna play;
A night of flames,
A night of games,
A night of pain,
It's all to gain
Until break of day
And when the sun beats down
Nothing is left to be found
Not a single silent signal
No evidence around
Nothing like sweet revenge
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
Fire up your talk boxes
Life’s such a bore
Until we discover
Today’s Rage du Jour
Do we have to turn Red
if they’re feeling Blue?
Does screaming more loudly
make it any more true?
Is it fate we must hate if
They want to make it great?
Must our faces turn redder if
They want to build back better?
What if we hear different voices?
And what if they make different choices?
Do we choose to lash out
always feel justified
As our fears turn to rage
and we’re bloated with pride?
Who among us sees clearly?
Whose judgment is never astray?
What great one among us holds just the right viewpoints
to keep cyber pitchforks at bay?
He said sinless stoneholders
could fire away
Yet there’s rocks hurling
constantly every which way
Can’t we sew up our lips
and ***** up our our ears
and realize there’s much
we can learn from our peers?
It’s hard to see it through our spite
But life is rarely black or white
Whatever happened to nuance?
When did we lose the gray?
How did this digital mob get the power to police every last thing we say?
There’s a whole vibrant world in 4K
We’re all welcome to come out and play
Let’s not label them Other
When they’re truly our brother
Only Kindness can show us the way
Jul 22, 2022
Jul 22, 2022 at 10:00 AM UTC
Watch me walk
Right outta this hell
And into something meaner
They say I'm all talk
But I wish em well
And the grass is always greener
Their words like pitchforks
They can speak but can't tell
The gods are waiting, Zeus and Athena
So watch me walk
And cast that spell
To whisk me away to a world so much sweeter
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
Revolution is knocking at the garden gate
With pitchforks and spoons to guard against fate
The people drench me with milk and holy water
And stare at me as if I slept with their daughter
I stand in white suit and a red tie
I look like a half decent guy
My hairs slicked back and my tongue coated in honey
And I smell like old bars and good money
With a tattered old suitcase in hand
I try to get you to understand
You don't have to sell your soul
That isn't my goal
Just buy some new high quality oven mits
and don't throw a fit
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 7:13 PM UTC
They say that the manic people
are most passionate
I am most passionate about
our love, your hands, thoughts, and words.
Our love, your hands, thoughts, and words make me
m a n i c.
and then...
PANIC.
The breath is stolen away by the demons
who stick their pitchforks into my brain
repeatedly, allowing my past to ooze out
and spread like wild fire.
PANIC.
The tears that try to put out the fire but in return
send shivers up my spine. The body turns cold as if it is
d e a d.
PANIC.
Is the worry of the ashes left behind by the fire.
Who is going to clean this up so I can breath again...
or will the flame begin again before we can clean up this mess.
But slowly the individual cells begin to heal
and when combined with chemicals that are released
clean up the left over ashes even faster.
We need one day to talk
and one day to rest
and one day to clean up the mess
and after it all
we'll move along and i'll forget those chemicals are in my brain
and when you look into my eyes....
I hope you'll see me.
and not the panic in me.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
Did you seriously just hashtag a hashtag
Is something like that even allowed
People will be tripping over themselves
You really know how to rile up a crowd
You're bringing all that is known to the tipping point
What's left of what's sane to the brink
Turning civilization onto its head
Before you tried this stunt, did you stop to think
That you would be creating a mob of angry villagers
Digging out their pitchforks and their torches
Stirring the posse into a frenzy
Before they've even mounted the horses
Or that this fiasco would upset the apple cart
Spilling its contents all over the floor
Cause an epidemic of heebie jeebies
Perhaps even the war of all wars
I'm not sure when you hashtaged the hashtag
You were aware of what it might do
Is it to late to take it all back
Otherwise I believe we're all *******
#I'mserioushere
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
here Devils all cry, it was not unlike staring at a king’s fire foaming, desperate tricks, mad fevers, not a soul felt
whether a day’s trend signifies hell, plenty of features cover the swan’s wings, but pitchforks are of smooth Vanadium
destined to serve, it will then serve destiny, earn conception inconsequential slave, free to extinguish, free to ignite
every possible leaf, breath, or stone, it factors a wasteful excessive task, issues its core in a desperate effort to nestle
dimming in the cave hall, a no account angel leaves by torch flicker, twitching ears, tracking blood, there is a fuel
which is harsh black anxiety high-strung coal made trans-lucid, and will burn and leave no trace once it mates
alert in the darkest moment, it was simple ancient criteria, easy renewal, meaning’s burden, your decorated time
ceases to struggle for attention, smoke implies the flame, but you cannot burn and at the same time remain
hark, how man’s assignments ring
glory to one thing among things
pieces of worth in the merciless wild
god and cinders reconciled
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
A man spoke to me, not my friend, but still
His words were gilded and I listened
And as he raved, his brutal demeanor
Surprised me, and two more voices came.
They had no wings nor halos
Their hands were free of pitchforks,
But they spoke as we have seen, and said,
This This man man is is precious insane.
My head vibrated like the drum they took it for
And my ears cleaved in two
I tried to listen to the man before me
But I was too deep in my own beliefs.
For he seemed bad and good
Fun and frightening
I could not decide where I stood
And the man leapt on me
With one hand he shook mine
With the other he teared at my eyelids
I did not know what to do
For he was acting according to my plan
He left me warm and cold
Unsure of myself
And I slept there
Until I knew what he was
He was the voices
The terrible decision to make
For neither he nor I could decide
If he was a killer or a gem,
For we were both men.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
Run free,
Run wild,
Run like the wind,
This way no one can hurt you.
You are the creature of the night,
You run through the darkness,
No one likes you,
No one cares,
The thing with you,
Is what you do,
You stab, slaughter and ****
Run free,
Run wild,
Run like the wind,
This way no one can hurt you.
The clock strikes midnight,
And the angry mob wait for you,
With torches,
With Pitchforks,
And with guns,
They all want a piece of you,
'Cause you stole their young'uns!
Run free,
Run wild,
Run like the wind,
This way no one can hurt you.
Hurt you!
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 6:14 AM UTC
Like a restless little upbeat cabaret. But I disagree today.
Hilarious decapitated, degraded parts of the soul and body.
The left thumb and the right index, pieces of a lively jelly
consisted of dark and shiny old blood. Pieces from the railroad.
Hilarious.
Comical anxiety in the late hours, vomiting
in the early. My euphoria when blood
drains and thickens. Blood's silent, never
violent, aesthetic, comical.
Amusing ********* *** licking hypocrite-
selfless sons of ******* wanting to know
how I feel and what's up. Nothing's up
and everything's down, little deprived teens of a world where
only Coca-Cola matters. Amusing.
Entertaining nightmares, a head rolling into the sewer, a ******
dark finger bouncing after and the floating soul has come to say
"the dead can't testify and because I can't take an eye for an eye,
in the afterlife I'll haunt you till you die."
Sympathy is reserved for George Bush and empathy for the African children.
So don't wave it in my face, Coca-Cola teens. Pick up your pitchforks and hang me around the gallows pole.
Shoot concrete in my veins because today I'm lifeless just like my telephone. There's nothing to gain and I can't fight the pain.
That's why today I'm insane.
-Fariiniq
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Maybe you have a bigger vision
Maybe there are things we don't see
Factors that bind you
That make you do all this crap to us
But we are the community
This is supposed to be for us
Don't you read our messages?
I'm sure you can spy on the Pub
From some cyber-crack in the walls
Can't you hear the chatter bubbling
Roiling over furiously
Foaming at the mouth
Like a hundred starving stomachs
Hungered until cannibalism
Becomes the only option
You should be listening
To the lynching mob
The drunken crowd
With pitchforks
Listen to them coming
For no other reason
Than to run the other way
You're next
Whether justly or not
Your silence has made you guilty
There he goes everyone!
Most hated man online
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 10:38 PM UTC