"posthumous" poems
1270
Is Heaven a Physician?
They say that He can heal—
But Medicine Posthumous
Is unavailable—
Is Heaven an Exchequer?
They speak of what we owe—
But that negotiation
I’m not a Party to—
6.4k
i can't believe i'm living out my life's
10 seconds of stupidity with
an un-payable debit account security
of future credit, loans, debt and moaning...
**** me double twice blind with a joker in hand...
of course i'm stupid, i got educated in
a world that pays you back with menial
labour, to look pretty... seriously,
don't do the stupidest thing imaginable and
get yourself a university degree, unless
you're a woman, that's fine, you'll get to
meet and voluntarily wet your ******
with the next president of Romania,
but we need idiot mechanics, and believe
me, i'd rather oil up car pistons like
stroking giraffe necks of Myanmar women....
from **** generals cited through to Epicurus' citation...
believe me, i wish i was smarter,
most of posthumous fame is a regard of
obstructive i.q.,
we were believed to not take offence at our
exposure to systematisation
which educated both thief and banker...
none of the two differ... both excusable buffers...
we trusted people... trust was our biggest idiotic remark...
and now the earth in spin... for endless maxims:
it's like that... and that's the way it is;
no wonder i end up watching serial killer
documentaries.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
onus of science, or dream, to all explain;
the inexplicable remains dismissed:
being here or there: exactly arranged
and no one yearns to know of nothingness
between the emptiness of meanings each
with labeled names, boxes tightly-packed--
towers darkly lined, well beyond the reach
of but a few, lost, scattered minds...
xe shouted through hir lungs a greener hue
that we could live beyond the concrete grey
die in love despite our evil ignorance,
our rainbow cutouts crying for the sun
--posthumous teleologies begun
in kinder dreamers, earthly songs enhanced.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
Pickled on quixotic tonics
he strives for a polyglot's poise,
balancing plaster peas
at the end of his tippler's tongue.
But the rough-surfaced pearls prickle
his too-ticklish bed of pink,
and gulped down, he administers
only a lessoned indigestion.
Flipping the flop, he prevaricates
himself into the tight-fit corners
of a parallelogram traced
by unsolemn processionals
bedecked in platitudinous finery.
Their porous smirks drip sticky
reminders of a plethora
of previously pernicious exercises
and dampen his fluffy ambition,
prodding procrastinations until
his drunken promise dries out
to become a posthumous wish.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
when I say the wind blows
you already know
but how do the leaves portend
emerald on the end
or grasping to the limb?
If the Love is Lost, when?
feelings were ample
yet, when unplugged they limp lame
sentiment in lieu of visceral slanguage;
Who needs a Heart when a record can be Broken?
i think therefor iThoughts
Depress into cracked lead
and bled red into inkwell;
gun shots have more potent stocks
tragically hip to be so square ingots
what gracious melodies and languid lives
battered idioms with only one just is to bear
how Sad their flirtatious Ness affair
with Pain must fin' ish and putrefy,
those believers in Death will die
hail a Hashtag worthy of
Octothorp
for phoenixes are found everyday
prostrate your Poetry for posthumous
consumption
apply the alembic of alteration
and
Heal our Hashtag heathen history
or
**** It
Hate the Hashtag
that's Life!
#love #life #sad #pain #depression #thoughts #death #sadness #heartbreak #lost
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
1671
Judgment is justest
When the Judged,
His action laid away,
Divested is of every Disk
But his sincerity.
Honor is then the safest hue
In a posthumous Sun—
Not any color will endure
That scrutiny can burn.
1.9k
shapes of yr many most favorite possessions
people looming in the lintel browsing through the pockets
yr posthumous stare chisels down the bark
280 & Alpine
taking out the post
east alto, west alto
sandwiches and snickers bars
let there be pizza
where beds happily move
and there are no swing sets or cell phones
let there be pizza
eighteen year olds swinging from the rooftops to the pool
no music played to remember it by
yr handlers are too many now
lost in the green lasers and spotlights
there are only two hands to make this memory
the quiet dark does not take it, new mouths do not take it
old words tearing off the night
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
Been itchin' to step on the toes
of some politicians, ditchin'
the sneakers and hitchin'
the anger, an armor of agression,
clothes of choler, cursing the
contempt-ridden regressions of the system.
Edgy kids turn into violent adults,
You have the right to remain violent, folks, 'long as you're getting something done and not lounging lazily,
waiting for things to change by
themselves, putting your drive on a shelf, hazily remembering what you actually believed - go **** right off and leave.
Stick to your guns.
I'm so sick of saints and nuns advocating for peace. Peace is a piece of giving up belief. "Friendly Negotiations" to talk you out of your convinction, turn convicts into martyrs and we'll see which side you really trust.
How can you believe that peace will will solve problems when it just causes feelings to be pent up?
People are competitive, wanting all that opulence in the posthumous, and peace is a puzzling problem, not a solution.
Peace would be basic if human nature wasn't so acidic, mixed with the tension of a complex society, your peace is about to burn a hole in the walls of government.
The only peace for me is death.
Ideals are nothing without people fighting for them with every last breath.
Go out and scream as long as you're making noise.
Rip limits to shreds, and raise your ******* voice.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
*i was eating a pepperoni pizza today,
and took a salty tongue into the night,
£270 on my bank account - great stuff -
took five quid out, felt like buying four
oranjeboom reds at 8.5% each,
instead bought two, and
perrier carbonated glass-bottled water...
god the thirst in this cement sahara...*
the best transition accompanying drinking
and listening to music comes
from the heights of reggae to creedence clearwater
revival... no, not the eagle, not Leonard the skin-head
with an 'ard on... creedence... lebowski who
was bukowski's posthumous alter-ego...
so i did a galileo while drinking,
the light on my side-table by the bed light
glowed, put my sunglasses on...
the stars disappeared and the planets appeared...
oddly enough, as is usual the case of
counter-intuitive matters when looking
at astronomical geographies...
mars far left... venus in the middle,
and jupiter the biggest and therefore the brightest
far right...
i worked it out against linear tactics...
the distance of the earth from venus doesn't
make a difference with the distance from mars,
but the distance of mars from jupiter is greater,
see you in 100 years to prove the point
and whether it matches up to HARD, NECESSARY,
PROOFS... LIKE MAINTENANCE ***
******* a girl with a really really exaggerated
libido, having to wear a ****** while she was
on her period, in the toilet and she bewildered
saying: 'most guys don't dig the female bits...'
hell... i'd do necrophilia...
shame the relationship turned to a sour toast with her,
shame, really... really really.
oh yeah, after smashing that £600 martin & co.
guitar to celebrate valentines day
(chłopiec z gitarą był by dla mnie parą
my grandmother used to sing...
well... sorry to disappoint,
i had her rastafarian shoelaces for
a pin-up belt to walk and play, or simply
stand still and note string twangs...
była giiitara... ni ma giiitary...)
and bought myself a drum-kit:
well... just my finger-drumming antics
on my legs;
or as a wise man said: **** her, leave the rest
for a backward trek into life
without maps but only premonitions.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
the view
stands beneath
the carousel efforts
to blast through
impregnancy aBLOOM!!!!
(w)ith feral legacies
aligned intimately ornately
posthumous adulterer
awakens in need
of
****** corrective agency
towards Fenitbow
and Glightrovee ab-surd as
qua as qua
asqua aqua qua
a^s is trite melody infer[no]
t a x i yellowing each pavement
by truth in yo ' fa ' ' lo ((lo))
i by horns and turns
in plyable waves arrest
what justice juices
freel_y
obligatory
antecedent
quai noyh thlume
ye
HEaVY
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 6:17 AM UTC
A week and a half, a year before ship sails
Azalea path was already paved
Soon I found someone in the same state of mind as me
All insane of astrology, all insane of metaphors
There's this delirium episode going inside of me that made me
slash what carried me far to see if I could survive worse
even tried the continuum oblivion
till I dare my hands to drive me in to an atom collision
There are times when it wasn't all about wars
I spent it combusting to few places
When and where snow is an empire usurped by crippled leaves in the fall.
Fall, fall, fall
It was him who falls and leaves.
One night, or one day, I don't quite care
but that is when I got away
I ran with flames not yet ignited
I barricade the commotion out with flimsy threads, all I can think
Didn't even thought threads spread flames (if it's ignited)
(Well now it's ignited)
And someone caught up in it
I can still hear him even now
*That's the end of my life
The rest is posthumous*
talking me up
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Standing as a posthumous syllogism on the main platform of the terminal, is the statue,
Of what is perceived to be man. Nondescript in attitude and feature, balanced
By the raw fact that a craftsman was disposed to cast it in bronze.
The likeness of the general populace, defined through blank eyes, in the perfect reflection
Of the truth. It seems that the epitome of accepted natural progression, that there
Should be no inscription, no engraved statement of popularity or definition on its base.
The dank smell and dust on the edifice on which it resides, continues to be a grim reminder
of the expected and the commonplace. The reminder of what was and is, is left unnoticed,
Forgotten by the familiar repetitive sight.
The dying terminal (a redundant epithet) has grown dark through the cast of despair
And false hope showering its massive windows from above. Light source has been cut off,
Leaving only a path of beaten resolve, to direct the feet of the misguided.
Not unlike the path, closest to the fence, struck hard by the hooves of the cattle, prompted forward
by the hand out of food in the first cold days of winter. The stream grows on a daily basis, more and more
The masses trip and stumble aboard the trains, to find their lurching, rocking way to self destruction.
Nobility could have been found in even handed choice. Those who chose the line, the prolonged rail of
Indifference and non-comprehension. Rails of iron, rusted like the rotted cheap pines on the waters edge.
It is the longest journey, containing the most miles, the last station, the end of earth and existence.
In some way you have known the base emotion, and what has been the guise of continuity, it is a new
Reality, a new abstraction, there are no contradictions. The checked premise and the realization
In words and concepts, those things we have known all along.
The realization is loved and hated at the same time, and it can only be beneficial that the welcome
Exceeds the hatred. The desperate homage to the masses is fading from the tangibleness, and is
Replaced the the disquieting base physical feeling of the impending no mater being undesired.
More important is the knowledge, that the precepts and premises held
Without words have the tangible meaning long desired,
And that the intangible reward, that can only be shared with few.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
i keep thinking about this poem in my head
i cannot remember a thing
even though i live in my head
bloodshot eyes are all i see
looking straight in the mirror, lost at sea
keep thinking i will see you again
knowing the answer is "never again"
i still don't know a thing
about this world
keep thinking everything i hear
are lies that are told,
that everyone is out to get me, like a tower of cards
left to stumble and fold.
that people only care for them selves, even though
they always told me
two people can make one's self.
if life is truly survival of the fittest
then my life is a jacket that could never really fit
i outgrew it before i was born
a shame, a shame
i am a shell of who i used to be, i am a lame on the street.
after you died, nothing can ever be the same.
the love we cherished
at fifteen, will stay with me till fifty.
god forbid, it is 2016, here i am thinking
i would never live past 2015.
i am gone, i am dead
whatever you hear from me is posthumous
being written from the troughs in Heaven's den
lost and forgotten, look around, see.
the rock of Sisyphus
weighs heavy on the walking posthumous
they are gone, they are dead, they push on.
i hear them say, rest in peace.
hope they will say the same,
when i find reprieve
at the bottom of the sea.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
Saying your name is like singing a melody.
Through grace and rhythmic harmonious symmetry.
Easing every moment in posthumous remedy.
Printed in the stars, your face and your name my lady.
Here I stand, beside your golden throne.
As if the moment will soon be gone.
No single lifetime is more than enough.
If you won't be here with me, in times so tough.
Each moment is like forever, so please leave me, never;
Momentous in your presence, is my heart;
Enchanted, still hoping, though we're worlds apart.
Night may come and dusk may arrive,
Dawn will appear after, and I'll be alive.
Only for one moment in such little time.
Zestful and beautiful may even rhyme.
And you my girl, my woman, my lady, would forever be mine.....
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
The spooky, eerie feeling grips me,
As I watch Grandpa swinging from a tree.
His body is lifeless, limp and pale,
His hands are fragile and frail.
“Grandpa”, I shriek, “I thought you were dead,
For your funeral mass the first reading I read”.
“Shut up kid”, he says with a frown,
“Do you know how bad it is there down?”
“Down?” I gasp,”So you made it to hell?”
“Believe me girl heaven ain’t that swell.”
“Is it hot down there? Do you loathe the heat?”
“Down there kid, I hate the food I eat”.
“Food?”, I exclaim ,”do you still need that?”
“Of course we do you blithering brat”.
“But aren’t ghosts the gliding type all slim and light?”
“Yes kid, but we need energy to scare Earthly folks at night”.
I gently ask, “What is it you miss most from up here?”
“Is it the TV set, liqueur bottle or fishing gear?”
“Honestly kid, I miss the food your Grandma would make,
Those sinful crumpets and cookies she’d bake,
those meat pies and curries with assorted spices,
Oh that food would distract me for an hour and half from my Earthly vices.”
“But you never liked her cooking and always criticized this and that”.
“Yes m’dear but I’d still gulp it down and get all chubby and fat,
So pay heed young girl, don’t fuss over your looks and weight,
We men love that initially but later grow to hate,
It’s the food a woman cooks that we remember even when dead,
So ensure you keep your husband always well fed.”
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
Accompany the good always,
Free thyself from alluring delusion,
Tide over the turbulence of mind,
And seek liberation of Soul.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ……9
Whither bound kin so keen,
When wealth is withered out?
Whither paled out lust and lucre,
When youth is lost in transit?
Akin to drained out pond on land.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….10
Behold the fugitive wheel of world,
Of lustrous wealth and wishes to seek.
Bereft you are to be, as time swipes off,
All ephemeral illusions in its course.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….11
Dawn n’ dusk make day n’ night,
Spring and winter take their turn,
Time plays the game of ebb n’ tide,
Yet, ignoramus hugs the storm of desires.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….12
None can save the rotten humdrum of life,
Save the sane and wise who guide n’ ferry,
Like a rescue boat in stormy ocean,
Of life revolving in birth and death.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….13
Be it an ascetic of ochre robes,
Or one in tucked from tie to toe,
Always strives only to fill his belly,
Thoughtless to the truth behind.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….14
Upper age freezing the warmth of life,
Unheeding head heading bald n’ grey,
Sickly face ******* toothless smiles,
Yet the soul clings to the pangs of life.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….15
Enslaved by the ire n’ desire,
Even in uneven evening of life,
Posthumous, none to carry or care,
Yet, one is passionate to the core.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….16
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
Crushed By The Weight of Truth
Buried,
Under the dusty rubble of fallen bricks
From a condemned house of secrets
Haunted by betrayal and fear
That the skeletons of a heinous crime
May fail to turn to dust
Suffocated
By a the silver electrical tape of pledge confidentiality
I am bound to a rocking chair
Outside of his empty closet facing the cracked window
where the wrecking ball of posthumous justice
Has lost its momentum
Julia Masi
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 1:25 PM UTC
rough, flush, posthumous lips.
exposed, crisp imperfections.
rough, barbed fingernails.
frost wisps eyelashes into splintered cords.
moist lyrics in the foggy solicits of a conventional partition.
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 7:15 AM UTC
1
This world is not for me.
Society and all of its greed
And pride and fears and lies,
But I see - the Fields of green.
I see the forest beyond culture's smog.
I see rivers and meadows and in them I see God,
Not society's idols corrupting my mind,
But beauty in nature, for people I have no time
2
I don't hate man, I just hate men.
I reject the crowd, receive the critics
And then, when I can, I plan
To change their lives, to change their stance.
Their pre-contemplating outlook of meta-physical well-being will be
Their posthumous regret when the trumpets sound early.
They cannot possibly want to die this surely.
So why wait, why bother, why help those who ridicule the very foundation of existence?
For better or worse, I ask myself this
And demand an answer; demand a reply.
But to answer myself this would just be a lie,
Because in the end I just can't see myself here.
Down in the underbelly while God's world is out there.
Man was meant to live and love and learn and laugh and lavish in the dirt;
YES! The wondrous Earthen soil that brings life to this otherwise wasteland of a planet!
Do I sound crazy? Fine then. I'll can-it...
But let me leave you with this.
3
While you squander your existence, I'm flying with J.L. Seagull.
While you sit on society's thrown, you'll never reach my level of regal,
For I am king of myself, I relish in happiness
I **** the marrow out of life and think not of shame or pride or possession or power
And therefore I must leave.
I wish you all the best of luck and hope some of you learn,
That you are just playing your fiddle and watching Rome burn.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
why did you leave
without talking to me
I had to hunt you down
in the cyber world,
like some new age cop
in search of a common thief
the cancer took you
they said
you fought well
and did not let the demons of drink
torment you in your final days
they,
those who shared your space
at the end, had names
on their doors
next to yours
but I was with you
at the dawn of man
when we sailed dream ships
through seas of sirens
did you not want me there
while you spoke your last words
while the old dreams
spilled through the soundless air
I could have caught them
before they landed on the ground,
before others trampled on them
because they did not know they were there
did our time, our few moments together
in this long liquid languid
maddening minute, mean nothing
to you
why did you leave without talking to me
I would have listened,
even if you said not a word
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
A posthumous letter came today:
My Dear Brother Fran;
I assume it began;
Your Loving Brother Sean.
It ends.
I'll never read those lines;
I know what's down between his lines;
His words and thoughts would break me.
His ink would stain my hands;
Leached through lines with real tears,
Dropping like time's sands.
He'd wax on our youthful days,
Wane on years we let slip past;
I don't need to read the words,
You know all things must pass.
I'll not sit to read his letter.
I'll recall how we were before,
When he was six and I was four,
Skating on the basement floor,
Or sliding down the new clothes line,
As pennants waving in the wind.
He taught me much of what he knew,
Just doing what big brothers do.
And always had my back.
I don't recall, but I'm pretty sure
We had our ******* quarrels;
But I remember hitting *****
Kicking, catching, throwing curves,
Rackets, sticks, clubs and bats,
Our cruel crew cuts beneath our hats.
He raised my game in everything;
Said I could do anything.
I'll remember his glance in the mirror
Going out the door.
If I ever read that letter,
I surely would regret forever,
Miss saying, I Love You too.
No, I'll never need to read his letter,
To remember Sean in his prime;
To recall the days when we two shined.
Lace the blades, Sean.
I'll be fine.
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 10:35 AM UTC
I found him late;
beautiful voice,
handsome face,
every sound I ever wanted
already sung.
He seemed kind.
Alive.
Then I read the ending.
So young.
So long ago.
And I just sat there,
stupid,
like it still mattered.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 6:43 AM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
stagefright! the musical; alternative in terms of Munch's expression: ah! ah! soprano of the silent question exhibited by thinking - silence of everything in the extremes... stagefright - ah! ah indeed, stagefright the musical.
if i'm not being paid -
why would i lie?
the world is big enough
and there enough of us
out there for someone
to cite their life and
be immediately dismissed
as a liar, and everything that
person cites as real to
be treated as unreal -
these are the perks of doing
something without caring
about being paid,
i mean... you'd be really
deluded to have to lie and
not be paid for it: the whole
system of practising law would
crumble - i am, what you might
call a manfred von richthofen...
i'm in a truthful free fall
an icarus... because i care more
for posthumous fame in the
realm of mythology than in
the modern sense of constant
paparazzi intrusion
like being waved a passport
photograph in-front of your face
every time the camera zooms in
and blinks at you with a spasmodic
irritability of a flash;
i'm hoping to get a chair named after me,
a rocking & vibrating chair to
solve sudoku puzzles in.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 3:44 PM UTC