"plutonium" poems
Earned under great spell of segregation,
With luster grand and blinding glimmers of false hope,
Standing like Trajan over his land, twice the spoils of war.
We must now thwart the hatred,
We must now look our brothers in the skin and decide if we can shoot them in the mouth.
Where lies the liberty in mysticism?
Why is this culture facilitating our schism,
And how now will we draw our party lines, or be done with them for a line in the sand?
Let us not fold in the face of dictatorship.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
I can feel you,
radiating unto me.
Love and pain,
we go unseen.
You're my plutonium,
my queen.
I'm nothing,
a dying ****
maybe.
Pull me up,
roots and all please.
In the hole,
plant a seed.
Watch it grow,
watch it bleed.
Heal its wounds,
make it believe,
then toss it aside,
when it becomes a ****
like me.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Still alone
We are not
Maybe Titan
All we got
Mine our way
Barge ore back
Build a bridge
Plutonium tack
Ceramic sails
On solar wind
Terminal shock
Butterflies pinned
On orbital ellipses
‘Gainst starry drops
Spun light and dark
Like judgment tops
Spendthrift starfish
Regenerate limbs
From primal screams
That eat our sins
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
invisible isotopes
gently rain down
onto the chins
of infants
we whisk
them
away with
soft kisses
tiny
irradiated
dust flakes
float onto
boutonniereless
lapels
we brush them
off with fresh
carnations
Oak leaves
blown from
denuding limbs
by soft puffs of
radioactive
plumes
are shaken
from our
door mats
green grass
sprinkled with
Strontium 90
is mowed
and mixed
into our
compost piles
the pristine
waters
of March
are laced with
uranium
tainted
iodine
it coolly
slakes
our
piqued
thirst
the rouge rose
gilded with
a golden plush
of soft plutonium
is plucked
to adorn late
evening
dinner tables
and exchanged
by sweethearts
as amorous
gestures
of resignation
between
condemned
lovers
Oakland
3/28/11
jbm
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 9:27 PM UTC
That Spring afternoon of my Upper-Middler year at Andover, I had just spoken with G. G. Benedict, the man who controlled, in effect, at which college you would matriculate. Columbia and Yale were at the top of my list. "Fine, fine, Tod. You've done very well here," he said. That evening, every student found a place to sit in George Washington Hall auditorium. Oppenheimer was to speak. I sat in the balcony, but I could see the man well. He looked as though he might have been around plutonium too long. Gaunt, pale, he began speaking. I cannot remember a single word he said that evening, but I will never forget the portentous feeling that came over me: DREAD (or should I say "dead"?) Over half a century after Oppenheimer's speech, humanity sits precariously on the cusp of extinction. A hydrogen bomb is 1,000 times more powerful than the atomic bombs we dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and there are thousand of hydrogen bombs we know about on Earth presently, not just the two atomic bombs Oppenheimer had. If only one hydrogen bomb accidentally explodes, scientists say that explosion will be enough to cause "Nuclear Winter." The sky around Earth will grow so dark that sunlight will not be able to penetrate it; thus, nothing will be able to grow and we will all starve to death. Every living creation on Earth will die. I think Oppenheimer, as smart as he was, knew, at least subconsciously, he had lit the fuse to inevitable annihilation of all living things.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 27, 2023
Apr 27, 2023 at 4:03 AM UTC
do you ever start chinking away
breaking, cracking the stone, hard mineral, steel cold
barrier of your heart
so it'd be impossible for someone else
to do it for you?
white wine pungent, soft
clinking glass against an empty chasm
sunlight
hard wood draped in sleeping veneer.
cascading drapes against
violet
dark
stagnant bruised skin left alone and slowly freezing over.
smoke leaking through whispering
dry lips chapped with desert words
lack of moisture creating canyons
hidden inside desperate mouths.
it's breaking like a frozen over
ashy, navy, drowning lake.
my own fault,
i always start breaking my own heart.
my own form of life insurance.
it's fogged over like a magnifying glass,
cracking across the two foot surface because
the strangled fish can't breathe under all
the permafrost and ice.
i'm waiting impatiently for summer;
i hate this cold.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
I’ve been thinking about hands
a lot lately and how fingerprints are like
permanent, foreshadowing tree rings
etched onto our beings; I wonder if
the number of rings on my palms have any
correlation to the number of years I’ll live or
the number of years he’ll live or the number of
years that she lived. I’ve been thinking a lot about
life lines and heart lines
and if there is any stock to be found in palmistry;
I wonder how my fate line got to be
so muddled with my luck line.
I see my life the way a clairvoyant would:
in cut-up and choppy strips of film—
I should have seen the omens,
I should have read the smoke signals,
I should have recognized the cards.
Act One began on a waning crescent moon
and continued until its gluttonous belly
had swollen with light; I thought to
myself that craniums made of gallium
often melt the quickest, that blood filled
with plutonium often flows the slowest. I would
have given my body up to the pathologist free of charge,
would have let him dig his hands into my entrails for
some sort of divination, some sort of revelation—
I was never told to beware the Ides of June
nor the Kalends of November.
Act Two began with the birth of Jack Frost
and has been continuing without intermission for
the past four celestial cycles; I thought to
myself that heart valves made of sodium polyacrylate
often love the most, that sinkholes disguised as
fingertips often feel the deepest. He whispered
in my ear cliched words about not believing in
God, but how I made him feel blessed, and in
that moment I knew he was the oneiromantic being
that had been shadowing my dreams since 1996—
I guess you could say that, sometimes,
I believe in love.
There is an art to fortune-telling
there is an art to hands
there is an art to bones
there is an art to dreams, and over the years,
I have found them coinciding more often
than not. In my sleep, in notebooks, in
irises, in mirrors, in poetry, in small little sighs.
I do not know if I believe in fate or destiny, in
God, in auras, or in the Blood Moon Prophecy,
but I do know that I believe in you. I find myself writing
sappy verses and smelling your shirts and I do
not know if it is because I miss you or if it is because
I’m bored or if they’ve somehow
mergedintothesamething.
I’ve been wondering a lot lately about
where you show up on my hands; about where
he showed up and where she showed up. I want
to know which lines bisect and which lines fall
short; I want to know if the resemblance between
mother and daughter
continues into that of my palm lines. I want to know
if my life line matches hers and if my heart line
is even worth giving away—
find me in your crystal ball, make me
your sacrificed animal, look for my body
in the stars, and we will know that
it was all made to be.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
What if
We were reincarnated?
I was the plutonium bombs,
I was everywhere to be found,
Burned like stars in the northern sky;
Yet my walls were too high
And my insecurity was too deep,
For I was so difficult to be created!
And you,
You were the uranium bombs,
You were the rare atom, of one in a million.
The one that I had been searching for,
To create a massive fusion for us two.
And together
We could create the hydrogen bombs
And explode the whole world
With our love
But yet,
We were too toxic,
Too destructive for each other,
That we keep hurting our bodies;
Roaming through the sky,
Just to sacrifice ourselves in the land of earth,
As to die and to be killed,
As if
we were
never destined
for each other.
-a.d
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 1:17 PM UTC
A is for atom
Rotten to the core
Melting down
below the ground
just outside the door
Where presidents and statesman
continue to play
with hot core rods
in a box of sand
forgetting where they've buried them
From Kazakhstan to New York
they walk away and wipe their hands
Now all young boys like hot apple pie
but uranium cake is hotter
and those who've tasted such elation
will tell you that it's nearly sinful
the way the warmth slowly infil-
-trates you to the bone
Hear! Hear! A noble cheer
for the best warm dish
served in years...
Soviet meltdown in hot sause
There's a piece for brother and sister and you
There's a piece for mom and dad
who chatter in the parlour
like a geiger counter going mad
Now the nuclear family
eats plutonium pie
and triple scoop reactor splits
melt and drip
from every bodies spoon
Cheer noble! Good men! Cheer noble!
Please stand tall solicit applause
Cheer noble!!
You'll get your rewards
and your just deserts
with a noble cheer
CANDU!!!
Roosty
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
Outta sight, outta mind. An eye for an eye.
Walmart, Sobeys obey the ****** man
Circled up family clan
Noises from a familiar land
Castles of torture for our souls
Silver, Gold, and Mercury, and
Plutonium, Sodium, Potassium mold
On stands held tight by weakening hands
They lead you along a path far away from
Truth locked away in the Promise Land.
Up in our heads, in our thoughts, the higher self
will lead the way, Never to be left on a shelf
Take it down for daily dissection
Self-Righteous freedom of introspection
Mothersoul sitting on the ties of the railroad,
Looking down the path to his homeland.
Birdys and net turkey stuffing you can bet.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
Old poisons bake from the soil;
Pluto, underworld god, pitches
Plutonium, god of dirt and death.
What was it ****** cried --
Judische Physik? His lucky hate
Kept Dybuk in the dust,
The devil inside uranium.
But, ****** left us behind:
his U-Project,
The creatures who salted Carthage.
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
Of the thousand reasons there is no God…
yet god lives in the thousand and First;
humility
Of all the Homos, One persists
by feasting upon the Fruit of a Tree;
Humanity!
A human ***** full of Pride
will ignore that which sharks abide;
the LAW
And ‘God struck down upon the deck
while Atheism commands all Ahoo and knows
the flaw.
Man adorned with all Its accoutrements
of flaked flint and purified plutonium
submits
to the Universe Man thinks He creates
until the noose of Its laws ‘round His neck
persists
To all God’s creatures past present
and future there is one dubious Gift;
Sentience
Whose edge is but one of a pair
and threatens the user with that ‘other edge’;
Common sense
God in his omnipotence stands all alone
despite what demons, angels lambs and fishes
Plan
So He creates a Tree to tempt His dust to rise
and contemplate the distance between He and
Man
If man is truly God’s image writ tolerably small
then what is man without a notion of humility at all?
He is ‘god’ with the power of an infant in tantrum’s fit
with Entropy standing ready to swallow all of It.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
Gentle plutonium flows through
a cloud soaked sky.
The next breath is
somewhere
in the air all around me.
I cannot catch it
I inhale the scent of a city
to exhale the circular lengths
of lost civilizations held together
by faceless, mindless tycoons
and machine-gun fire.
Like the phosphorous spark
of distant fireflies,
words stirring like chemicals
to flash in unison.
So what is this now?
A cerulean tempo limited alone
by the accidental pausing
of an instant?
Stutter of the clock.
or these hidden iron
beats hammering rhythms
into my soiled heart.
Touch of an infinity
blood flow
with a pinch of glassy
thoughts that dwell on stilts over
a sea of miniature gods and
hourglasses and TV sets and
suicide beds.
Streetlights in the
windows talk
but do not offer a final
answer.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
In area 51 they selected a large patch of desert
for their nuclear tests!
Fencing off the ground in a desolate spot
where they estimated.
The plutonium would come safely to rest
the experts knew best!
Many explosions were carried out in the fifties
no public knew the truth!
But one crucial fact about the contamination
as it lay in the dirt!
Worms were not bound by their fences
so undermining their defences!
How far would the plutonium have been taken
transporting the lethal load?
Birds to feeding on the worms in the earth
what was their contribution?
Too much secrecy and failed containment
and tax dollars spent!
It will end up destroying a once ****** earth
what now are the experiments worth?
The Foureyed Poet.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
You stood in the limelight
before a shaft of blazing luminescence
emitted from the zenith positioned
matrix of all energy
The brightness illuminated your
radiant countenance
as blackness enveloped around your
structures as in a early baroque
by Rembrandt
Your form was made from the finest
materials
But your representatives stood in defiance going beyond
their eroded gardens and
trampled vegetation and beast
underfoot; even defecated plutonium
in my backyard
and belched various gases in my face
Luxury is still your ideology;
all to sure in obtaining
unlimited resources
You are still heavily consuming
the best
still maintaining the frivolous notion
that all is well
never anticipating
that time passes into the future
The shaft of blazing sunlight
has insidiously been replaced
by a blinding interrogation lamp
as darkness licks at your morals
and creeps upon your very being
small cracks are now being discovered upon your once lovely face
No longer can you obtain desirous
riches as readily
as options become minimized,
while playing and bullying a winning serious game of monopoly
against poor countries
Panic is beginning to take hold
as reality overcomes frivolity
You are starting to run,
you have already left one of your golden combat boots
in Vietnam; later pirated black gold
from Mesopotamia
under perjury and severed our nation with the fascistic sword of xenophobia,
and plundered the spirits, at home, and other innocent minorities unjustly
And nationalised yourself from a continent to an island regressing
into itself; homogenized into exceptionalism and the nervous propagandized
gnashing of Caucasian teeth
But doubtless to say
there is no reason
for a prince to save you
because you have gotten too old,
much too corporatised,
too corrupted, too soon, too fast,
YOU MUST SAVE YOURSELF!!
And I know you can
And I know you can
be that lady with that beacon torch of hope...once...again
And whence comes the nourishment of love that flourishes once more...
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
I'm subtle like an atomic bomb
keep my words laid back and calm
my heart is a glass grenade
feel it crack when my love fades
but still, I stayed
but still, I stayed in this charade
and built around a barricade
you know I'd rather talk this out
spent a decade to you devout
by your side through the drought
so quiet we would never shout
but still, I doubt
but still, I doubt the chosen route
and if I'd prefer to go without
(your tongue a jacketed hollow point
we've never gone to bed angry...
but regret, guilt, and empty sadness
is a fragile yet different parallel)
(I suspect my veins course with
plutonium and uranium...
I leak radioactive decay,
my half-life disintegrating)
there's a stillness when I explode
for a moment, time is slowed
you're in disbelief that I'd reload
the same feelings, the same road
but still, I bowed
but still, I bowed to your code
and stayed despite what you showed
my atoms begin anew to divide
no longer stable, can I abide
I feel a part of me has died
when to leave, I must decide
but still, I cried
but still, I cried by your side
until the day I walked out in stride
(your love is a weapon
I've been held at gunpoint for so long...
I never wanted to hurt you
but I can't keep hurting myself, either)
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC
What may it be? A critic or mass or both sown together
within a sphere explosives around threatening?
An angry oceans of heavy neutrons imploding, or, tell me,
is it the amount of money for the majority
to nuke the minorities from here to eternity?
Is, critical, for now, (I am densely packed), a moral majority erupting to take all of our freedoms?
Is Uranium or Plutonium being sold ;
by my drug dealer?
I mainlined something. Saw a trillion explosive stars,
or was that just you,
walking into the room?
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Composium ode to ye
Symposium of conformity
Stand up on thee podium for said
colloquium.
Oh please give me some *****
Or petroleum, maybe plutonium?
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
You stood in the limelight
before a shaft of blazing light
emitted from the zenith positioned
matrix of all energy
The brightness illuminated your radiant countenance
as blackness enveloped around your structures as in an early baroque by Rembrandt
Your form was made from the finest materials
But your representatives stood in greedy defiance going beyond their eroded gardens and trampled vegetation and beasts underfoot, even defeacated plutonium in my backyard
and belched various gases in my face
Luxury is your ideology,
all too sure in obtaining
unlimited resources
You are still heavily consuming the best
still maintaining the frivolous notion
that all is well
never anticipating
that time passes into the future
The shaft of blazing sunlight
has insidiously been replaced
by a blinding interrogation lamp
as darkness licks at your morals
and creeps upon your very being
No longer can you obtain desirous
things as readily
as options become minimized
Panic is beginning to take hold
as reality overcomes frivolity
You are starting to run,
you have already left one of
your expensive golden combat-boots
in Vietnam; later pirated black gold from Mesopotamia
under perjury
But doubtless to say
there is no reason
for a prince to save you
because you have gotten too old,
much too corporatized,
too corrupted, too soon, too fast,
YOU MUST SAVE YOURSELF!!
And I know you can
And I know you can
be that lady with that torch again...
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
the world is over the animals are dead. Left are the machinations of neutrality. Equilibrated entropy. Haunting the desert. The Brownian machines are dead after the ratchet of life broke all its teeth to the tool. Broke on dinner plates of all the energy in plutonium. The Greek gods were real and as jealous as was spoke .wanting back the mass taken from the quantum blips. no longer do things move forward. Progress is non meaning. Pushing back and forth in place the tricycle to an unlearned humanity. It all imploded all is implossive. My strings and nails crack and fall off together.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
Suicide is not an option
Just a mental state of mind I'm always stuck in
When people leak plutonium
Into my lead
Impenetrable
Bubble
Which also will double as my coffin
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
The trees
used to sing with the wind
before He got here.
The salty ocean water
would gently shush us
all to sleep.
Now that He’s here
ships are sinking like
our dreams:
immediately.
Ever since He arrived
Candles no longer light the way,
They burn bridges
and build unimaginable walls
in their wake.
Plutonium
is no longer
radioactive.
Radioactivity
is relative.
Everything now glows a
sickly hue,
brought on
by His discolored
rotting views.
Air Earth Water Fire Aether
The eternal marriage
of Air
and the Earth
has faltered
under the guise of
conversion
“therapy”
Water has now
made itself undrinkable to all
but the chosen few.
Fire is now
Only Orange.
The Aether
is no longer empty.
It is filled
with all our memories.
It is the only place
for all of our bodies to go
now that we’re bound for soot,
inhabitable soil
and eternal
nuclear snow.
Air Earth Water Fire Aether
are now
GreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgain
There are lots of avenues
through history
to travel down “again.”
Many views of former greatness.
Slavery
Holocausts
Massacres
Cities Lost
and it all starts
with an immigration ban.
Signed on the day
remembering
my dozens of dead family.
My millions slaughtered endlessly.
Here we are
At the beginning.
History supposedly repeats itself
Let’s not let Him
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
Repetend gerent war ashes
Laspe humanity plume the
White heat lyre of Benu and
Sin actuates titonomachia quarrelling
Over the actinic lymph mother, Gaia
Succumbing unto the familiar solstice
Of Pandora's box wist' nights
Ricketiness randan morn' curtail
The nebulous clouds of lauded occidere
Homeric laughter to stick in ones gizzard
Sans the wraith brazen head to steal
A march upon forty feeding like one
On the vegetable lamb of Tartary
Ridding annulment.
ELEETE J MUIR
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 6:17 PM UTC
I Plutonium, and you Cyanide
Both poisonous at touch
Yet, we each longed for a taste
I dreamt deadly dreams,
Of sweet Cyanide,
Bubbling up my skin
Rising up towards my neck
And my only thought was,
How pleasant
And you
You would speak highly of Plutonium
Admiring it’s properties
Knowledgeable of the damage it could cause
But, not aware enough to care
Eventually, we both met the same demise
Choked out,
Plutonium and Cyanide
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 9:17 PM UTC
Kings of Psyche! Teach us!
How long must we **** from Mother's vein?
How long must we mine! our memories to pebble?
How long must we take! to build bridges?
Oh Prestigious Elite! You Diamond People!
Did you see! the mushroom cloud?
Did you see the fall! out from your towers?
How did you sleep? among the rubble?
How did you breathe? in this metal ocean?
Reign on us your wealth
Of Knowledge!
Of Plutonium! and Pennies!
Of Protection! and Principle!
Of People! and Death!
and Death! and Death?
and Death? and Death?
and Death? and Death?
and Death? and Death?
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC