"placard" poems
With a raffling breath
I sate death neatly
I am now in trust
Dead
And being played into new life
There's a swelling of new strifes
and wavings from within
Heats of organisms
Worlds accelerating
Pulsion
Gases waste and gases invitations
take place where I have been
A celebration
A bedding
If only The Humans would leave
the 'Dead Body' be
Just when I am finally achieved
They make a bother
I'll make out a doner card
No, a placard
"No Preservation Upon Death !
Corpse Rights Remain !"
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
So as much as this Drama does persist
Your Prisoned Warning tugs at my Cool Shirt
Asking me to take Prudence and desist
In bashing Silence to where it would hurt
Now engraved in Copper I will make Clear:
For all my Writ Plagues I Apologise,
Deep in use plug Buds to that Trumpet's Ear
If Empathy a Letter in disguise
This my Friend's Spy; Deploy to high pursuit
Waving that Placard in belated claim
Which tastes folly less on a nutty boot
And Reprimand stamped on his just Remain.
Such I learned that Friendship's Best takes no Force
I Follow my Heart; Now you Follow yours.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
The plane is emotion.
The form is a gentle rider,
she pushes bullets off cliffs, she hugs the stars.
Catches the moon eyeing her with one
great big hand wrapped on its ****
spins the bell of her dress
round and round.
Sifted from the Earth, man moody
cleft in heaps of his entrails,
no progress has been made.
My metal mother pulls hula hoops for zulu,
she rips down the shelves and pulls
Bobby Dylan from the wall. She says,
"grrrplleeopzhrka." And the smoke gets into
my eyes and burns my nostrils too.
In the great wind screen, footprints of man,
Native American blood weeps on my bright
Summer burning, no regency cleared. The
outlook denied. It sits stagnant, maddening
with its blockhead on sideways. Heavy, old
mutter hubbard wilting gold in her stare.
Mess comes. She spoils, her skin is loud
and anointed, her fecund white placard
is thinner than air. People look at each other,
a goblin, two trollops, the green woolen winter-wear
of a soldier in despair. Only a putrid noon, escaping,
cuts the flesh from the garden. Cuts out all the weakness,
the hope, the love, every thing owned, every one cleared.
The skin trap and oyster flap. The rich mixture of voices,
nothing holds common that bond, that few could look upon,
that youth could-
none of the old things work anymore.
Just a wicked boredom trickling in blood down her legs, just
the lust trickling down her legs, dear mommy, I obey.
And when the summer months set in mahogany, and the icicle
feat swallows us up, dear-
death
Winter
lips
moths buzzing
mouths
fuzzz
your sweet bomb
bon bon
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
I cannot recall the moment
that sanity became a working goal.
Drugs are expensive,
sobriety; even more so.
Somewhere between all of this
I will have to learn to live.
The homeless are pushed out of town,
asleep beneath the railway bridge
that sends rain through rivets
like bullets.
I keep punching the clock
as it throttles Eros with slow hands.
“Sometimes just a smile is enough”
reads a cardboard placard.
But I have not cracked a smile
since I started popping these pills.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
Ihain kaso
Sa mga akusado
Buksan ang lente
At maging responsable
Hiling sa presidente
Bangkay na patong-patong
Placard na nagsasabing
Sila ay lulong
Karapatang pantao
Ba't di isulong?
Dapat ibulong
Sila ay mali
Ng gawaing napili
Mabuti pang isuplong
Di ba dapat ikulong?
Dugong dumanak
Kailan katanggap-tanggap?
Dulot ng panganganak
Sumpa o tulong?
Bara ba sa pagsulong?
Lumobong bilang
Mga napagbintangan
Pagbilog ng b'wan
Supling na nanakawan
Walang kinabukasan
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
326
I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,
That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,
And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,
Nor tossed my shape in Eider *****
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—
Nor any know I know the Art
I mention—easy—Here—
Nor any Placard boast me—
It’s full as Opera—
2.2k
The sad thing is
I could have justified my instruction
with the simplest of reasons.
I would not have asked
a harmful or a wicked task of him
and I could have explained that
with perfect clarity.
But in the instant that he asked 'Why?'
my patience failed
and I said, 'Because I told you to.'
The implied threat was sufficient
and the task was done, satisfactorily.
If I had only known
that I would become one in a long line
planting furrow after furrow of bitter seeds
in this young man's head,
each of which would grow
into the toxic blossom of blind obedience
I would have checked myself that day.
But I did not.
And any inquest worth its salt
would line me up beside him,
beside parents, teachers, priests,
drill sergeants, generals, presidents
A line of dominoes
aimed remorselessly
at a smiling young woman with a placard
in a park, in Istanbul.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
It’s work, this wailing,
a daily occupation.
Alongside the light-rail
A ghost bike, a placard,
a quickening in the blood.
Murmur, breathe myself to sleep,
fleece this feeling,
Blue skies somewhere
and yeah, life goes on.
I struggle to wake,
my sharpest knife
slides along this peach’s stone,
scoop this flesh, devour.
Crepuscular light,
Fecundity of life,
Lacerate this daytime
cut through with dim.
Celerity of dusk,
and with it this gloaming,
My quidnunc neighbor
seals ear to wall to trace
my hitching breaths from air.
But it’s tomorrow now
and it is warm in Paranoia Park.
This violinist, though hardly Paganini,
embroiders sound onto sound.
His bow draws a frisson
along my spine, my nerves
His strings, vibration,
shimmering, a shock, a flush.
This moment: a reprieve,
my coffee break from grief.
All the trees are turning orange.
The days all turn to sleep.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 3:52 PM UTC
This room—not his
nor the house, the yard
Though a placard bares his name
it slides out
at a moment’s notice
when the waiting ends
when his old hand stops—
twirling, mindless against the loving quilt
This house-- the same
but different
from a distance
He should be sitting in this still life
an old Sachem
on his lawn chair
This garage—where I stand
still his, strangely
Patient tools
Cherry Chevrolet wait
with work gloves resting...
Cannot bring myself to touch
where his hands last laid them
As if to move a thing
would **** the matrix of the man
His moment rushing toward me....
I can hear their whispers now
Leaves, once forbidden
have gathered in his absence
tangled in his hedges
nestled by the stairs
Chattering together—
“Man with the rake—no longer comes”
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
Here is the word I
would place alongside myself.
A neon placard, no
hesitation.
An ugly-shiny presence within
the confines of my breath, the
whispers in my hair.
Bittersweet.
I split it open into near-perfection like
two halves of a peach or
two sides of a brain.
Right, left,
right -
I don't even like peaches.
But I offer them to you.
My 'sweet' is a sucker-punch candy on
your tongue, you confess. Like
licked-off icing, 100%
perfect.
You love it. You love her.
But it's only half of -
The 'bitter' I hand over, all
slap-dashed with hurt and
hope that
maybe finally
you'll be that boy who holds the glue to
put me back together.
Pick up
the halves of the half that
stop
your tongue and
put me back together again.
Would you do that?
Of course you
don't.
It's okay.
You cannot, I cannot deny,
the 'bitter' is grinding, grating,
binding
and I don't tell you that
I'm tired.
So tired
of pouring sugar on it,
with my hands all out of breath. Pouring
sugar
that's only stolen.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
her mind was as open as the crystal blue sky
but she was lost in the cage of her heart
the one she carries with her
covered with a fine silken golden cloth
the one one that she has attached jewels to
attached tales of Madrid and the
travels she made as a young girl
it was on one of thouse dusty roads that she found this tale
written on a placard that reads so well
like something Hemingway would have said
that reads like a key to all the closed doors in
any city of the ancient world
forever sealed
by times jewel encrusted hand
by the golden trim left the passing of
thousand pilgrims on the road to divinity
the rain had swept away the tastes of yesterday
and leaving behind a scent to the air like rebirth
like a second chance for this one run filly
all the heads hang low in the humid sun
all the thoughts come to the coming carefree night
but as she steps carefully through the picked fields
carrying her basket of treasures
her soft cotton dress revealing more than it hides
she sings sweetly to me
in a voice only i can hear
of a dusty road near Madrid
of a sweet young girl that she was once
and in her heart still is
i pull aside the golden cloth
and unlock the cage
for some beauty's were never meant to be
captivated by any less than
real love
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Proclaimed the paper-cutout placard on the table:
Clothless gray plastic-surfaced round.
In this immense faux-stone (concrete?)
Faux-English country house
We escape to the top of the stairs:
The no admittance sign is no deterrent.
The iridescence of your skirt is captivating
But all I can remember is living in a castle like this one
When I was a little blonde nothing
And feeling the way I do now,
As if there's been no transformation, no progress.
Maybe there has,
And this band must be pretty great
To keep this many old white people dancing so enthusiastically
For such a long time:
An ancient one with a Christmas-themed vest
Foxtrots with a once-lady in a polyester pants suit
Thin hair dyed roofing-tar black, suede kitten heels clacking.
The world's a **** strange place.
Even if we feel like we aren't quite awake,
We'll adjust our stockings and fill our plates
With that mystery-shrouded gelatinous citrus dessert
And our plastic cups with apple cider, light beer, 7-Up.
Endure a few more minutes on this rented dancefloor with me
Because they're playing love shack
And who doesn't smile at the mere notion of the B-52s?
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 3:10 PM UTC
Intoxicated with
'Might is right! '
The moral dwarfs,
With beefed up muscles
And iron fists,
Drove home fright
Killing and leeching
Alienated natives
Day and night!
They brutally
Subjugated many,
With bare hands,
For God-given freedom
Who have to fight!
Up on gaining
Back freedom
Revolted by
'An eye for an eye! '
Mandela the moral giant
Declared
"Retaliation what for
and why?
A moral dwarf, like
Ex-bosses,
Degrade myself must I?
Though I was robbed of
Sunlight from a lullaby
Almost to the day
I die!
The 'peace and considerateness'
Placard is what we must
Worldwide hover high!
All of us are on our way out
Let us make sure
Behind us we leave
Days bright!
Also we must not forget
Among the white
The presence of
The moral giants
Who fight for
Blacks' right!"
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
1.
Offer your children a diet of pumpkin soup for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
In the absence of children , offer it to your spouse. Or offer it to yourself.
2.
Color your face and hands Green.
And hold a placard with the words: MOTHER NATURE .
Then stand outside on the highway at peak hour traffic.
Just watch what they do to you.
3.
When the children come knocking tonight and they shout: Trick or Treat? tell them:
I’m doing the Trick and Treat, little darlings - and say:
The Trick is, I’m going to recite one of my poems, and the Treat is that too!
And just watch them run!
4.
Your son’s room is ***** and untidy? He never tidies his room?
Well, today you can reverse it all: throw frogs and toads and feathers
and chicken curry and rotting pumpkins about in his room and listen to him complain in reverse, when he comes back from school:
Mum! My room is so untidy!
(Trouble is, you may still have to clean up.)
5.
Call your mum and tell her you are pregnant. (Of course your mum might have read this and she might be calling you to scare you with the same Trick.)
6.
Walk over to your neighbour’s drive-way with a new $100 broom and offer to sweep their driveway.
7.
Put up a sign outside your house just for tonight:
*Give this Old House the miss.
Old Witch is back.
Old Wizard is brewing Old Lizard Potion to celebrate.*
8.
Or try this sign outside your house:
*No Halloween here.
Just Bold Miss-fit Blunderteen (blackbelt, TKD) lives here.*
9.
Trust me, witches flying on a broomstick over trees and the moon is not a myth.
Gather all your folks and neighbours on One Tall Tree Hill, climb that tree, sit on a broom, shout: I believe! - and jump off the tree. You must also have a crowd of at least 20 for this to work.
10.
For goodness sake, just this once, try being human. Just for today. We've had enough zombie days.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 1:22 AM UTC
the pretty maiden wearing a blue chambermaid dress
her placard read "don't abandon me here"
which she carries down the dusty street
everyone stops to stare
as she walks slowly by
they all feel so sorry for her
she was left here by Knights of Columbus back in 1967
her prom date kissed her on lips
and she lived all her life for that moment
for the perfect guy
for that perfect kiss
and she has been wandering these backwater towns since
trying recapture that kiss
nobody can seem to love her like he did
and he got in his showboat convertible and drove off
after the parade that day
left her standing here in the middle of main street
with party favors and streamers at her feet
now she is an icon for all the century's between now and then
and America growing out of its childhood
July fourth isn't about family anymore
its about bigger bang for your buck at the mall
here she comes again
her hollow eyes are staring off to the horizon
where she expects to see
her prom date to come back for her some day
he will be her knight in shining Buick
come to sweep her off her weary feet
on theses dusty backwater streets
in an older and sadder America
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
utter the truth only in whispers
is what she wrote in small letters on the wall
and each morning she would pass the spot it was written
and would run her fingers gently over them
and she would say his name is a passionate voice
full of heat and longing
like the miles and years could just be wiped away
if she had enough courage
if she wished hard enough
he stood in the rushing rain
his long grey coat blended him into the background
his placard was written some phrase
meant to catch the eye
but not a single face paused in the busy street
it would have taken only a word from him
and they would have all stopped in their tracks
and enthralled they would seen...
but nothing would ever come of it he knew
he knew that someday he would have to pay for what he done
it was only a matter of time
time
the monk grinding his eye
against the hard truth of his thread bare life
the world teaches to take your rest with the moons tides
the world teaches to mix your loves with the wines of fortune
but the monk dances in the middle of summer night
to the weary horses delight
he sees a bright jewel in the eye
that others consider naught but a bauble
but the monk knows a smile is worth a thousand golden chariots
and will lift you higher
all of us on these ***** streets
the noble and the strange
stand and look at the rising tide of light
and marvel at the crisp colours
and wondrous visions
of dawns light
even the most hardened of souls
can still see beauty
even if they can find nothing in it
the monk turns away
and limps slowly back into the shadows
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
I
Years and years of yearning
Dreams and dreams depressing
I fly back, back on the wings of memory
And time my pilot be
For time's grey hands yet swings
Ticking away behind sturdy wings
Backwards i journey humming like the bird
Past-ward to scenes
And sounds once seen
Once heard
Tearful laughter, painful joys
Youthful blunders - silent noise
Over and over, the flames rise
Over and over, storms in our eyes
Blue nights that once upon were
Who was there, what was fair
I write of a past once veiled
Lonesome,
dark memories i reveal
I will speak of choking,
muffled yells
Pain. Depression. Fear - Hell
II
"*Ah, say berries taste sweeter red
Their juices free as more they bled*"
But who taught the kid to feed?
Nanny dumb; he nipped the ****
More so, as like a log she lay
Dogs shall school your kid to play
Yet should we upon mores lay blame
Cholerous slight culture's game
Slay her players with a Poisoned Placard
Aces. Queens. Kings. Protesters. Playing card
No, i shall not cheer my own fall - come
Sit with me, give me your hand, come -
Though you are broken, hold -
Proud. Resilient. Bold.
I call to you, "come father,
Tell me what house fire make the kites gather,
What color, the smoke of marijuana?
Your girlfriend - is she really from Ghana?
Will you have stone if i gave you meat,
Tell me, what is it you do in corners of dark streets!?"
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
i would know
when my heart sinks
im listening to one of
the six songs that you played
pulling right into the handicap
thanks for the placard
creak open the drivers side
and waft into the carcasses
beetles flown in for late spring
jangle at the door lets me know
im home
phone and off
litter in hand
sirens
not the kindly looking ones
the ones that make you shake
by hands
arms
heart
drive home to hold him
(or her depending on your mood)
but the child...
where are you
not here
as he pukes
and giggles
i dont weep for you
or his continence
for us instead
and the way you bathe
i dont need to talk
now
anymore
this is not about love
and so on
what am i to you
something trivial
dont deny it
what else would curdle my veins
love?
or this nom de plume
the response to it?
no
its how i cant be with you
its how you deny what i offer
its what i offer to all the people
that can read
when can i expect all you offer
how soon can i cease my own denial
very soon
i hope
pick me up
carry me to the threshold
so that i might carry you
right the **** back in
i beg
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Thugs and tyrants tempting fate?
Fallen kingdoms threatening war?
Hordes of immigrants at the gate?
Hang this placard on your door:
good intentions cannot fail;
liberal smugness must prevail !
Children ***** while cities burn?
Tortured corpses, sudden blasts?
Armies surge, regroup, return…
your gentle snowflake counsel lasts.
Smug and godless never falters;
smug will save your sons and daughters.
Hilarious, this global village.
Flags of doom unfurled on high…
throats are slit as death-squads pillage;
****** madness stains the sky.
What matters most: you’re open-minded
(smug beholds the world unblinded).
Christian faith? You blow a fuse,
babbling to your New York Times;
crusades with jihads you confuse
apologizing for their crimes.
Hashtag snark will save our day
smug, enlightened, global, gay…
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC
A million people
marched on Whitehall
every footfall
was a trumpet blast
every placard
bore an epic poem
every eye
flashed righteous lightning
and it made
absolutely no difference
at all.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
I've done and am doing
everything I can to avoid you
and save you from feeling uncomfortable
standing in line for drills, I'll give you
almost a ten-foot berth
it surprises and shocks me
when I still see your face
looking slightly disgusted
or when you and your sister make eye contact
I can't help but wonder if you've deduced it,
figured out, that though
I have no right to be jealous and hurt
I still am
and though
you do not belong to me
I love you like someone suffocating in the heat
who only occasionally gets a breath of cold air
and even then, it is just a trickle
for I am dying to stay away from you
dying when I keep you close
my heart is struggling, limply pounding
frail against my ribs, there's nothing left of me
because its all for you, I changed myself
a named bullet
or a placard on a seat at a table
saying 'here, this one's for you'
my mannerisms have changed
my dance, my walk, my voice, my sense of humor
consciously or subconsciously,
I have branded my soul
molded it into a you-shaped whole
but then
you never liked being told what to do,
did you?
so I turn away, I walk on the opposite side
I never want you to feel pressured or like you have to hide
I dance far away from you
It's not a matter of 'time to bide'
it's about you and your decisions
that you have your alone time,
despise being labeled,
your wants are completely yours,
defy my understanding;
I'll never serve them out loud to you, you'd hate that
all I can do is quietly avoid, conceal
because I'd give my life to make you happy
and fill your needs, objectively
for I've come to terms with the stark reality of love
and your plans, blueprints of what and whom you're going to be
and how they don't ever include me.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
This valiant Soldier-of-Trials endured
Of much his Placard Dream for Stars commit
Applied his Years; When his Sponsors assured
That at last found his Chance to benefit
This Dream, Mattered Friend, since kinder discuss
At random lines bought the Diver in common
For sure, left the Glue for me to adjust
And raise the Master from his Dominion
You, of all, Noble from these Idols sung,
Quaint is their access for your Inspire
Hoping, with Wasps sting your Parents have stung
The Name this Family will respire.
Fly on, my Eagle: Fly to your Reward
Encash your Savings; And spend your Accord.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
Buzzing
cries are muffled
under forests of
crimson flags
that march towards
the city square,
rippling with intent.
Banners are crude
in attacking today
but naive
when dreaming
what could be:
‘Poetry is in the streets’
they cry,
‘Tis forbidden to forbid!'
Granite towers high above
protruding into nothingness,
sheathed in angry cloud as
rulers sit inside,
poker-faced,
pondering
Inevitability?
...
Well-placed muskets
spew forth shrapnel
as white-hot death
enters bodies
that fall to the ground,
their fists still clenched
in unyielding rocks.
Out leak scarlet legacies;
The blood is striking
against the snow.
...
A forgotten placard sits,
buried half in mud.
Red letters still visible
it reassures
that two and two
no longer
make four.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
The mere apprehension of danger
From self and not a stranger
Where you lose yourself at times
When mood swings are favorite rhymes
You sink deep into the emotion
With a placard on face of CAUTION
Falling in the lap of tears
In front of others is one of the fears
Escaping the happiest blanket
To meet the bareness of blue ambit,
Teaching to master in an art
How to push people or grow apart
As the danger is greater for latter
Their emotions and peace matter
Than the one to lose after episodes
Of relieving and throwing my own loads
On their heads for no reason
Caging them in my own prison
It is time to set them all free
As they got to live their own glee.
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 4:07 PM UTC