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Gabriel Adam Apr 2010
The trees are naked.
They look down on us
like scars.
And I'm ashamed of it.
While children were swallowed up
in angry soil
born in hungry war zones,
I was drawing finger bones.
I was painting your spine like river.
And I'm sorry.
I'm fighting the only way I know how,
because I never learned how to use these fists.
Girls would beat me up on playgrounds,
but now
their wombs have been stripped of their innocence.
Against their heart,
that broke out in tears when they stepped into the clinic.
But at least I'm doing more than just wishing.
At least I'm not sealing our sisters and brothers
in body bags.
I'm trying to leave an impression.
Because I met this girl
who had a voice like hand grenade
and I'm hoping my tongue
is like a shotgun
so I can hold it to the head of the hurricane
and tell it to stop.
I can't hear poems when you're screaming.
But I can feel the hose that you're beating me with.
I can smell the cigarette butts that breathed death into the lungs of brilliant girls.
I can see the scars that were left on the wings of the angels that are now men.
The trees are naked.
They don't like to be cold
so I tried to cover them with blankets of words
but they shrugged them off like snow.
I'm sorry.
I'm doing the best I can.
But I spent too much time scraping the skin
off of clouds with my fingernails.
And I found the place where God left us.
He never told us what to do.
But daddy said to be strong.
Don't cry Johnny.
Be a soldier Johnny.
Fight for what's right.
**** so you won't be killed.
Be a monster.
I knew women who wrapped their
prayers into telescopes
and went stargazing in steeples.
They claimed they could see God.
They said that their sons would return home.
But the only soldiers that come home
remain in caskets.
We're hungry.
And I'm tired.
You look as if you've been weeping like a willow.
I know my fingertips are raw
with words of forgotten anthems.
The trees are naked.
They're tired of mother nature being *****,
she forgot to take the pill
And I forgot what it means to be alive.
So I watched snow falling like ghosts
watched the streetlights turn into halos.
I poemed a river that was shaped like your spine.
I hope this helps.
Don't tell me that prose is useless.
Because that star strangled banner is
just a mark of shame.
We need some rain to clean the blood from our hands.
Need some heartbeats to make our music.
It's hard to read poems that are carved
into the  prison bars
of a birdcage,
full of our sisters and brothers who recite
Bible versus for parole.
We've been reading the lips of Death.
And it's about time we stopped.
vircapio gale Oct 2015
projective geometry used to get me *****
all those positions

,palmately pink and ever green
breathing vasts of void my dark heart laughs in gulping wholes
moaning plenums, hooded over boundless venus-vim

now i'm tired of infinite lines
too many shapes to fit in
too wide, too tight, sharp or empty

,too many ways to come

this was meant to be a disclaimer before a collection of poems

,a way to unclutter
                angst of public  
                              lexicality,
years  after  ­ 'explaining'
                  Samir's 'polygonal me'
                                                to only-me-myself-i-was,
to then indulge this analogic soundlessness...
             
        as i disengage

i can't write without planning on it
i can't write about  writing  without feeling like a fool
                                                            ­                 (,Lear is the only one
that saves me now
                       as now i am the Fool,
                                                 dividing hearts along
in storm-***-love-like railway-*****
                                 steaming full of fiberoptic nooks,
chaining spectra-cogs of a good-will-spirit-****:
                                       concatenated hard-ons every word
each thought a pulsate vulval dream awake,
                                                redichotom­izing lives
                         of shining mons my Athene forehead
                                                      forging fountain thought,
                          urethral letting-beings-be...
freely, my chubby comes back to me
                                         prone before the prostate god)

,in other words
              the same,
                     i cannot write as other than a fool
for
why should i repeat the abject horror of the world?
isn't despair a bit.. overdone at this point?!
and why should i write just the happy!? i'm not in denial, am i?
or am i in denial
about insisting on being in denial absolutely?
--like mind-only schools...
(O the uselessness of words, dismissing patriarchal vigor with yet another wave, the 'brine-milk' ends unending,
forever Femen liberating us of words,
replaced with Fragilaria,
wasting diatomic seas and waterways,
depleted algae gone, extinct: metaphysiCalListo-craticality aborted on a broken Amazonic spear,
our bodies, bodied-hearts, finally won as ours, across Alternaqueeria, fully lucid human-species spanned
i blink my tears and blur my gaze at weeping Pleides

the plan was this: painful poem, pleasure poem, painful poem, happy poem... **** poem, sterile poem, carnal poem, priggish poem, punk poem, open poem, confessing poem, eros poem, **** poem, 'obscene-attractive' poem...
to cleanse inverted mainstreams of my steady-rhythmed pratitpaksha-bhavanams; not "poem, poem, poem, poem..."
but a taut poeming in and out of poems of poemed poiesis prosing poets free to **** again in Issa's snow, or *** on Chiera's cumaholic Shards.

pendulum left, pendulum right; then two pendulums, then none; then one that swings right and left at the same time; then one that spins all the way around, but only clockwise; then one counter-clockwise; then one both clockwise and counterclockwise; then one timeless, then one imaginary one... full of infinite little ones... to represent all the pendulata in the universe as experienced through minor parts of self.. itself as universal part-whole-parcel self-hood spanning star-births yet to come...
,
,
,but it's time to eat a 'square' meal
take off my job-search tie, my peddled lies
                   forget the sunrise vestibules we sipped from,
                                           sleeping by commoding cows

and pretend i'm not dicking myself over
                                                          by­ retreating
into cryptic spectionism-voids again
                                               all seagull-divert-adverts, play
of frozen youth abstrused,
                      self-referred referring loosed
                                          staggered worse than marginalia
no single species 'seagull' singing here
jeremy wyatt Feb 2011
So tired and poemed out
got this one then got nowt
want to do more love and hope
so tired I'm feeling like a dope
words are crawling to the screen
tripping on the keyboard in between
hungry but tofar gone to eat
stuck in this familiar seat
got to drag myslf to bed
and get a pillow for my head
wistful here so all alone
not even my cat yet at my home
curl up like a tiny mouse
in his chilly winter house
those last two lines were quite prophetic
hang on, no, the word's pathetic
getting desperate for a rhyme
go now, quick it's past bed time!
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
MY NAME CAN BE FOUND IN THE ALPHABET IF ONE OBTAINS THE FOURTH...THE FIFTEENTH...THE FOURTEENTH... FIRST... TWELFTH AND TWELFTH AGAIN LETTERS TAKING CARE TO USE A CUTE ACCENT ON THE 15TH LETTER.

Alice was having 40 winks
( but she hadn't yet got to wink no. 13 )

when she was so very rudely
interrupted by a giant hand

taking her '...IN WONDERLAND"
down from the topmost shelf

she had been resting on
for many many months undusted.

"Welllll!" thought Alice to herself
'...that blew the cobwebs away!"

yawning loudly as it dawned
upon her what had

befallen her pages.

She couldn't tell that the hand was
Irish...but it was indeed.

"A great wind blew and
I was scattered!"

she remembered the ****** Queen's speech
or words...to that effect...not exactly right.

The hand was the hand
of an Irish poet

and with a howl she
fell through a vowel

in his voice "O!"&
again "O!"

landing with a thump on her
coccyx

in the middle of a white white
page.

It was as if
all the world had turned

to snow & "O!" she said &
"O!" once again and again.

"It would appear that I am
about to be

poemed by this
Irish poet person!"

Alice had become quite
adept

at talking to her hand
because her face did not want to know.

And so with a final flourish she
found her self scribbled

and held down by his words.

"Really his handwriting is
illegitimate!"

she told herself as she
tottered upon

a final full stop that
continued on

until it had become an
. . .

as darkness fell just as
the covers closed upon

the Jane Austen 5 Year Diary
she was being written into.

She continued oooOOOing
although she knew it was

very unbecoming
for a Victorian child

composed mostly of Carrollian words
& Tenniel'd cross hatchings.

The Irish poet had vanished back
into the kitchen

to make a cup of
Earl Grey Tea.

"Mmmmm!" he said to himself
& again

"....mmmmmMMMMM!"
vircapio gale Oct 2015
and wins, uncounted,
fall
crystallineated

egos flaking from the broken, crusted snow

i have lost my founded plenum's fill--
in chainsaw bite and vibrate
powerlining chill of poemed demise

love's warrior-chiming focus pill--
the rhyming will,
the will to unrhyme real aesthetic abject thrill--
alliteration's dulling pull
beneath all competition's rising low.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
MY NAME CAN BE FOUND IN THE ALPHABET. . . IF ONE OBTAINS THE FOURTH...THE FIFTEENTH...THE FOURTEENTH... FIRST... TWELFTH AND TWELFTH AGAIN LETTERS TAKING CARE TO USE A CUTE ACCENT ON THE 15TH LETTER.

Alice was having 40 winks
( but she hadn't yet got to wink no. 13 )

when she was so very rudely
interrupted by a giant hand

taking her '...IN WONDERLAND"
down from the topmost shelf

she had been resting on
for many many months undusted.

"Welllll!" thought Alice to herself
'...that blew the cobwebs away!"

yawning loudly as it dawned
upon her what had

befallen her pages.

She couldn't tell that the hand was
Irish...but it was indeed.

"A great wind blew and
I was scattered!"

she remembered the ****** Queen's speech
or words...to that effect...not exactly right.

The hand was the hand
of an Irish poet

and with a howl she
fell through a vowel

in his voice "O!"&
again "O!"

landing with a thump on her
coccyx

in the middle of a white white
page.

It was as if
all the world had turned

to snow & "O!" she said &
"O!" once again and again.

"It would appear that I am
about to be

poemed by this
Irish poet person!"

Alice had become quite
adept

at talking to her hand
because her face did not want to know.

And so with a final flourish she
found her self scribbled

and held down by his words.

"Really his handwriting is
illegitimate!"

she told herself as she
tottered upon

a final full stop that
continued on

until it had become an
. . .

as darkness fell just as
the covers closed upon

the Jane Austen 5 Year Diary
she was being written into.

She continued oooOOOing
although she knew it was

very unbecoming
for a Victorian child

composed mostly of Carrollian words
& Tiennel'd cross hatchings.

The Irish poet had vanished back
into the kitchen

to make a cup of
Earl Grey Tea.

"Mmmmm!" he said to himself
& again

"....mmmmmMMMMM!"
Donall Dempsey Nov 2019
MY NAME CAN BE FOUND IN THE ALPHABET IF ONE OBTAINS THE FOURTH...THE FIFTEENTH...THE FOURTEENTH... FIRST... TWELFTH AND TWELFTH AGAIN LETTERS TAKING CARE TO USE A CUTE ACCENT ON THE 15TH LETTER.

Alice was having 40 winks
( but she hadn't yet got to wink no. 13 )

when she was so very rudely
interrupted by a giant hand

taking her '...IN WONDERLAND"
down from the topmost shelf

she had been resting on
for many many months undusted.

"Welllll!" thought Alice to herself
'...that blew the cobwebs away!"

yawning loudly as it dawned
upon her what had

befallen her pages.

She couldn't tell that the hand was
Irish...but it was indeed.

"A great wind blew and
I was scattered!"

she remembered the ****** Queen's speech
or words...to that effect...not exactly right.

The hand was the hand
of an Irish poet

and with a howl she
fell through a vowel

in his voice "O!"&
again "O!"

landing with a thump on her
coccyx

in the middle of a white white
page.

It was as if
all the world had turned

to snow & "O!" she said &
"O!" once again and again.

"It would appear that I am
about to be

poemed by this
Irish poet person!"

Alice had become quite
adept

at talking to her hand
because her face did not want to know.

And so with a final flourish she
found her self scribbled

and held down by his words.

"Really his handwriting is
illegitimate!"

she told herself as she
tottered upon

a final full stop that
continued on

until it had become an
. . .

as darkness fell just as
the covers closed upon

the Jane Austen 5 Year Diary
she was being written into.

She continued oooOOOing
although she knew it was

very unbecoming
for a Victorian child

composed mostly of Carrollian words
& Tenniel'd cross hatchings.

The Irish poet had vanished back
into the kitchen

to make a cup of
Earl Grey Tea.

"Mmmmm!" he said to himself
& again

"....mmmmmMMMMM!"

— The End —