"postured" poems
Leg off the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door!
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric
join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omega
and crocodile shoes
get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines!
did you give it your all?
the door tags
and pleasantries
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all those impressionable basics
put to the test?
you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade
old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the shiit storm
with those hostile priicks
and a slew
of insatiable
cures
there’s laughter from the back room
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)
soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)
might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern!)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!
headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final
shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line ~
this banter
is killing me
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
the committee
has convened
(kangaroos corralled)
the agenda
is set
(scapegoats framed)
the politicos
are preened
(perfect patriots)
hair coiffed
teeth whitened
(fangs sharpened)
correct talking
points bulleted
(minds closed)
puffed chests
perfectly postured
(bombastic bravado)
freedom fighters
stand firm
(Constitution usurpers)
American flag
lapel pins
(sparkling bright)
liberty's spirit
and tolerance
(roundly condemned)
special interests
are watching
(payola earned)
partisan lines
clearly drawn
(democracy doomed)
Music Selection
Cream: Politician
Oakland
10/1/10
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
On his mighty mountain
Jove reigned with his queen
Never questioned
Never held in check
Such riches never seen!
With mount Olympus as his home
Far above the throng
He could do just as he pleased
No, he was never wrong!
Then a fair nymph maiden
Caught Jove's roving eye
Hera was out shopping
He saw the maid go by...
Making his advances
He found that he was spurned!
No matter how he postured
Her head was never turned!
"Oh Jupiter!" She laughed aloud
"You bloated moon, you knave!
I'd rather love a he-goat
For all the gifts you gave!
You have no tact. No honor.
You plurocratic fool!
You pick your teeth with
Poor men's bones
Using wealth as tool!
Go on then! Arrest me!
Force me... if you dare...
But I know Hera's servants
The one's who do her hair!"
Jupiter was stymied
He knew just what this meant.
Hera'd throw a fit for sure!
So he had to relent.
But he cursed the nymph-maid
With great poverty.
But dissing him was such a joy
She'd do the same for FREE!
(C) SoulSurvivor
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Gray Owl hearkens
the dappled daybreak knell
echoing through
the wildwood forest stand;
rock doves and frosty stones abide,
where a marooned heart doth dwell,
disrobed by the longest night's frigid touch
Timber stand grips tight
red clay and bedrock of ages,
postured tall and strong
as eagle's spirit throne
Pine cones hide
in the low drifting clouds,
ripe acorns tumble down alone
unto a windblown
shallow earthen grave,
hillocked beneath
the sky-high canopy
Bones of branches,
furrowed bark from burled oak,
wood-grains of pith,
natural gnarled achings
peeled by the shivering
wind's breath
Paling autumn memories
grow dim as the receding sunlight,
recollections of ebbing Jasmine's
mellowing fragrant balm
waft aloft in a favorite fading fantasy,
the edge of winter metamorphosis
bears down with a prodigious weight
of a different kind of retreating light;
brindled Queen Anne's lace
hold sway across
the tawny frostbitten meadow
imbuing the poignantly
whetting breeze
The blink of an eye winks,
to catch sight of
an intimate glimpse,
an unspoken
solitude holds forth,
the mesmerizing coo of rock doves,
reverently mirroring
the sanctity of the forest wildwood
lingering amongst the frosty
ferns and stones
The harmony of tranquil silence wanders;
only the bowing resistance of the boughs
manifest the shapeless wind’s
whispered breathe
swirling above the labyrinth threshold;
therein lies an unfractured fault line
rooted deeply beneath
the earth’s crust
like the sonorous heart
of a sanctuary hearthstone
Hence there is symmetry
felt in silence that only whispers
in the deep toned consonant
of our own harbored sighs
a holy human blood link
born of heritage wilderness heartwood
beats keenly alive
written by: harlon rivers ... December 2017
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
the derby bots
and rounded slots,
the push,
the time,
the go.
the hold-me-down
of ever knots,
the whistle
I can't
blow.
the feigned impress,
the postured lot,
for selves,
do some,
give show.
pulled head from sand,
that anti root.
my only
hope's
to grow.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 5:12 PM UTC
the defense of your legacy manifested into strings of saccharin
and phrases like ‘Come on in from the rain. We all need a torrent to own the storm, just- take off your clothes, don’t mind Kierkegaard.’
your sincerity is a cipher
you’re something of a conversation piece between good friends
who were artfully made of pre-engineered steel on a day Jove tremored in his bed
you’re something postured beneath a javelin
and likewise- something propelled for decorum
blackguard, black coffee and a birthmark turned into a running joke.
inevitable.
you searched the bottoms of summer pools
and found no discernible trace of your history
her sable crown whips back and forth in your head
and you maintain the chaos with aureate cries of preservation
it’s a halcyon boom, a lonely and sexless halcyon boom
it makes every yellow and red dress chimerical
it makes your neck unassailable
drugstore cowboy
they got close enough
to see you sweat
to note that heat and her magnificence could purge as quick as they reinstate
and you still beat
like they do
stubbornly.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 10:20 AM UTC
I wish I could capture the moment
We exchange glances and smiles
Creating sparks,
and fireworks,
and fireflies.
Admiring you for what seems to be an eternity
Captivated by your face and beauty.
How the sunlight adds a perfect glow to your skin
Defining each curve,
and each lines,
of your face and body.
Unconciously staring at you in just pure adoration
Unable to fathom your perfection.
How the dead silence brings yourself out perfectly
Hands in your pockets,
your lips sealed tightly,
dimples showing slightly.
Mesmerized at your sweet, kindly, innocent acts
Is there anything that you lack?
How your flaws makes you as perfect as can be
Postured restlessly,
beauty mark on your back,
messy hair swaying swiftly.
You're soft-spoken within such a great humbleness
Doesn't change you nonetheless!
How unawareness effortlessly makes you perfect
"Angelic-like music,"
"striking like static,"
"scars are beauty from tragic,"
You see the good in everyone me being one, yet-
You don't realize how beautiful you are
And that's what makes you perfect even from afar.
-djs
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Wake up tear faced
Wet and soggy pillow
Thoughts of yesterday flood my head
Mind wrenching messages
True or untrue?
Shake off the hurt along with my covers
Lost in a book to escape the realness of life
The last page's turn brings back reality
Sneak away from the ache and into the shower
Mind buzzy busy
Dry off to get clothed
Close the drawer and stop
Just like that
Pause.....
And it all floods back to drown me in my own guilt
Completely unannounced
Hot tears stain my cheeks
Break down and a mind ****
Doing fine I told myself
How dare Thought be rude and burst in uninvited
Unaware of how much I've ignored
It makes things better
Until hurt sneaks up on you again
All the time
Never ending
Once a day
To all day
No one to honestly talk to
Serious matters
Everything on the chest must come off
They say it will feel better
You'll walk away with light feet and postured shoulders
But....
I know
For some reason
Difference calls my outcome
Mind games whisper failure to my heart
Slouched my shoulders stay and brick by brick my steps
Every day gets heavier
More stress and more panic
Across my message will not go
No one to hear me out
Always the factor of skipping out on my feelings
Listen instead of ducking into a battle
Wishing I could say all the words rioting in my mind
It drives me crazy in there
Desire to scream lungs out
Craving fixed hearts
Hungry for your lips
Devoting all my sorrow
Encouraging accepted apologies
My battle never won
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 2:43 PM UTC
itself, it was much in comparison.
butane huffed thru handkerchief
blood-nose, brain-stem dripping
with a wet cleft hemorrhaging
knowledge like the internet.
billowing smoke from the
consignment allegory of
a whokah we all shared
'til confusion had us
asking. I waited
like a trail for
a ballerina
to tip-toe
her way
up my
spine
toward
a waiting lake;
cold and warm
in a nature so
solvent.. quiet..
peripheries embedded
with industry postured
on rocks, metal buddhists
asking all to vague-labor
meditate 8 hrs a day, 5
days a week == sleepless
like dreaming, sleepless
experience wafting
through an open
bedroom door
as chicken
dinner.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
We sit together on low whipping cream white plastic chairs,
opposite over a fake fiber board table
covered with cheap and flavorful fair.
The aroma of chili, coconut milk, tea, and greasy noodles fills my mouth and nose
and above us the deafening pattering and smacking
of heavy rain drops landing hard
against the Plexiglas roof fills my vacant ears.
The night set's in as cold and comfortable
as a fattened fish
at the bottom of an icy lake
and with the sun fully gone now
and the square or street outside empty
the Asian owner opens the garage style glass door,
its metal tracks holding milky white paper orbs full of light above our heads
and he tells us we can smoke a single cigarette in here
safe from the cold and biting rain.
Your eyes watch thousands of minuscule silver streams flow
between the network of cobble stones
like tiny rivers raging mercilessly,
violently,
into the darkened abyss of the storm drain
falling hopelessly over its silent brink.
But my eyes only watch you
with the constant sound of the downpour
sedating my sickly mind
I watch your slender hand
lead up finger tips
to the cold white rolling paper
watch it settle comfortably
between the rosy red of your plump and postured lips
they let back out curved and milky clouds
reminiscent of the sweet swaying of your hips.
I crack a sincere but tired smile,
and put the price and tip under my plate.
We both stand and stretch
and head off slowly, huddled warmly
knowing its been a good night
and finally i feel happy
and i can tell you do too
as a smile spreads slowly across your face
like a tired cat stretching for a long days rest.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
Looking meticulously on a river scene of beautiful Wednesday afternoons with all of life’s luxury
Out the window is a tree bent and gnarled with visible age twice my own
The perfect metaphor of life merely eking by, postured against infinity
As another, warped by the waves and turned to termed drift wood, also catches my eye for its existential merit
As it’s all been said before perspective is our only peculiarity
At the point, or lack there of, between all and nothing
Our minds spontaneous self-revelation is miracle enough for any, god fearing be ******
As over grown and lush as the under-leaves have become it seems like a waste to cut them out now so we might as well pump them full of fertilizers and hope for the second coming
Of knowledge and growth that began in the stone age bottle necking and splurged on drugs and money during the industrial revolution.
While trying to remember the ugliest parts that were and always will be me
Lets get free, really really free
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
I backpedal before flanks of flames,
auburn and angry, devouring the
fractured field; deconstructing
the turn of the century.
The fire jumps up and down,
like a developing polaroid,
asking to be acknowledged
-- to which I can relate, but
I'd like to believe I cause
less destruction.
Closing my eyes, I become
submerged in memory of the
hideous boulevard she drove
down, to the tune of disposable
pop singers; crouching next to
the radio, praying with the servants
of postured finer joys like pirate
rubies and sweet kale salads.
When looking up, through the
windshield; through the life;
a tic scampers from eyelid to
cheek, as the car buckles before
a triumph of a deer; the size of
a Godly Eland, shoveling it's
human feet into the downtown
dirt: an asphalt so slick, we
rose from our seats, as the
God split our vehicle in half,
throwing us into opposite
guardrails; dodging cars,
while it watched us.
Shudders of savored gladness
drip down my hairline wound,
painting my face before I die
and return to the towering blaze.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
I'm wondering now if
Tomorrow, when I wake up
I'll forget this day ever happened.
Its wake of consequence absently
Sounded in white noise voice,
Soft whispers of a great taboo.
Pathological History:
Even for Me there were nice things
Sociopath Society:
Persuaded subtle rejections of pain
How dense can conventional apparatus be?
Contriving comfortable ignorance,
An inconvenient dream.
Postured hope urgently praying for
Well behaved inevitable endings.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
Something with the rotten breath of ignorance stains our city,
It was out there on a bright afternoon spitting and snarling,
The beast stepped out into the glittering sunlight without fear,
It crawled out from the coffin of a car towards Carrs Lane Church.
This beast was a cheap and violent punk of Pakistani descent,
What he did brought shame to the proud land of his ancestors,
He came with fire blazing from eyes red with the **** of waste,
His chin peppered with a designer beard which bristled and itched.
The car door lay open behind him as he ****** the air and snorted,
He stepped towards the youth handing out ‘The Stylist’ magazine,
The only sound was the blade of words which sliced the atmosphere,
He pointed, jabbed, spat, postured, and hissed at the delivery boy.
No one offered any help,
All looked away,
In a place packed with people
No one said a thing…
Until…
A schoolboy, from the lilting land of sun and calypso stepped out,
He confronted the **** who threatened the delivery boy,
The school kid stood calm and showed not an ounce of fear,
The volcanic heat and rising anger of the bully suddenly deflated.
Another door opened and another stinking blind beast stepped out,
He slithered out to aid his cowardly and quaking friend,
And that was when another schoolboy stepped in to offer help,
This lad was descended from the fair fields of faraway Pakistan.
The black boy, the brown boy, they stood together, warriors both,
They stood their ground and protected the white delivery boy,
This was brotherhood without colours, this was unity without borders,
The bullies limped back into their car, clamped the doors, and sped off.
Our kids,
They know unity,
It is we who build divisions,
We are to blame for the rising tide of suspicion.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
Her eyes look past,
past my postured figure,
past the drunkard who’s ****** himself,
who sulks in his **** soaked pants,
sulking in drowned regrets and fog,
past the high heeled woman,
who steps over the drunkard’s liquid lines,
which flow across soot stained concrete,
upon this boulevard on this street in Budapest,
we could have been anywhere.
She’s in a bad mood,
doesn’t want to talk,
doesn’t want to listen,
probably doesn’t want to even live,
I understand her,
better than I care to admit,
she’s battling a lung affection,
she’s battling the delusioned stares of countless lustful men,
I tell her she doesn’t have to talk,
I tell her she doesn’t have to listen,
I tell her she’s welcome to come in,
to my sanctuary and simply exist there,
she refuses all my offers,
and I wonder,
what she sees,
when she stares past everything she sees,
I tell her I’m going to write a poem about her,
she asks why,
I tell her I’m a poet and that’s what I do,
I write about moments just like this one,
even though I know words are only words.
I know the frustration,
of trying to explain the unexplainable,
I know the frustration,
of trying to put all this in prose that’s easily digestible,
and herein,
lies the paradox,
if ignorance is bliss,
then genius is torture,
and we are both tortured,
and we are both in denial,
and we both know,
we may never see each other again.
Her eyes look past,
past my postured figure,
past the drunkard who’s ****** himself,
who sulks in his **** soaked pants,
sulking in drowned regrets and fog,
past the high heeled woman,
who steps over the drunkard’s liquid lines,
which flow across soot stained concrete,
upon this boulevard on this street in Budapest,
we could have been anywhere…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
07/09/16
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
she was 3 feet 7 inches
with enlarged aureoles
that almost entirely
covered her small *******
and an *** so mondo
that it needed a wheel barrel
to hold it so she could walk upright
her lips where plush for kissing
with a look on her face
that caught the Bishops eye
and caused him to growl lecherously
his stunted reddened member enlarged
while she postured
giddy
pretending to hang herself
over the toilet bowl
this is how they spent most Saturday nights
in the rectory
their favorite little routine
as Christ looked on
his eyes shrouded in
the darkest Dior sunglasses
she pranced and gurgled
went slack-jawed
her tongue flapping
turning vermilion
drooping and feigning death spasms
pretending to perish
inspiring him to beatific *******
as he sacrificed their babies
to the oblivion
of a toilet paper ***
thus kneeling between her legs
he became the humble recipient
of adorations golden shower
amen
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
Who are you,
and why have you come?
you, yes you
postured
firm and intent
in those grass roots
and tie-dye...
are you listening?
don’t you know
these sterile walls
and linoleum floors
aren't safe
for anyone?
You really do
look familiar...
did you come
from the farm,
or way down south?
either way
I've nothing
to give
they took it all
at the induction...
left me standing here
with nothing but
a cold green frock...
do you think
it’s deserving?
Surely there’s no use
in pretending...
like I told
the one before
(and the one before him)
standing around
with steely eyes and
sweaty palms
will only
bring on the heat...
no use laying
down promises
one cannot keep
I’m tired
and up to here
with these
new admittances
(ripe with their tall tales)
nothing left to do but
jump the glass pane
(or jimmy the lock and ride
the drain)
I just gotta
get out of here
Mr…what did you say your name was?
Look around
these antiseptic halls
and vacant rooms
are squeezing the life
out of me...
and these people
don’t you see them?
they've all lost their minds...
it's in the food
and the meds
and the way they treat us
I just don't know
who to talk to about it
anymore
A tall man
in a black suit
shuffles in,
speaking softly
of condolence
and arrangement...
standing high
with gable chin
and gurney ~
the people in the hall
are switching their attention
to giddha dance
and have no questions
or comment
thank you for listening
dear sir
this does feel better
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
On the marshy banks of the river temptation
I grow shorter, sinking deeper into indulgence
I want to dive in **** exposing my true nature
but yet, over the fog, across the ripping currents of conformity, I see him.
The man I yearn to be and fear stricken for failure I pull at my legs and pull at the vines and shovel at the swallowing mud consuming me deeper into reality, further from the man I see across the torrent.
Well postured, with a bright smile, a warm wave and a full head of hair
and it is with the image forever branded onto my cortex that I sink in defeat at the seemingly impossible distance between us.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
Unsteady feet,
Tread cobbled, wobbled floor,
Little potted plants,
Dead at the door.
Salt in the air,
Flurries of sun
Entwine fair hair.
Cables zap as they shake
Up above,
In this place of chipped paint,
Lacking it's love.
Spray crashes over
The spread harbour arm,
Knocking out,
All of its charm.
A sweep of the gale,
All unsteady will fail
to keep postured posed and poised.
A flick of the mist,
wail of the lighthouse,
As the weather consumes,
The quaint little homes,
All torn up
In the turmoil of natures fumes.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
My eyes
fill with tears
and i
can't bear the wind
that blows
and the happiness that flows
within my semi-torn heart
the crack is molded
by joy
as if it is a surgeon
with a needle and string
that brings
the separated walls back together
peace at last
from all the torture
from seemingly incurable thoughts
that postured
within my innocent mind
torture
from unsure emotion
make me feel devotional
to something that could destroy my very being
fleeting
now and finally free.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
I'm jealous of that needle in ways misunderstood,
how close it got to your heart and why I never could,
I'm angry at your tattoos in ways that un attract -
how each day that black and gray can lay across your back,
fearful of this metronome's consistency with our weather - patters.
All the clock seconds we never spent together - after.
I never sent this letter, yet I wonder if you hear it,
And if time is non linear then how I feel you in my spirit.
projected memories with postured prayers of approval,
the contrast of a Compass and cascades of confusion,
I dream of you waking up to tell me that
you found your destination and you made it past the illusions.
and please tell me that, you did what you had to do because you made our mother cry; for that I'm mad at you,
you went to sleep forever and not once felt it
and I ask myself why? Why you had to be so selfish?
Who am I to judge though? I am anything but perfect,
explosions in the sky sometimes I try to find a purpose,
that same sky at night I lay awake in search
but the overlaying clouds are closing in distortion of observance
Black holes tugging at your life force, love sick potion would you die for it? La di da ride or die party through the night, if Heaven was for sale would you buy some more? Let's hurry up because were running out of time let your souls ascension extend on the dotted line, Silver lines in our eyes I'm mere disguises, it's like we're always missing something running out of time
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 12:23 PM UTC
And now come the other men,
The figurines, the foragers
And those who marched
Onward
By the failed evergreen. They
Speak of war grown days,
And times before the land
Was tore. Their voices
Shrouded
By one anothers’ patience, and
Each man carried his scars,
Cradled,
In their shadowed
Limblike arms, they bore
Tear marks
Printed
On their gormless
Salty cheeks, and
Under their heavy
Sullen eyes
Paraded gashes
And stains
Of crimson and bleak.
And now come the other men,
Out of the ovens, rushing
For some safer housing.
It’s all a conundrum, this
Waiting and wavering, an
Uncertainty
Mounted across a ditch
Of slightly burnt
Flesh, men mashed
Into one.
And now come the other men,
An identity shared
Between friends, who bask
In the untimely forgery
Of their postured
end.
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 5:16 PM UTC
Long ladder to the stars
While losing sight
I'm postured in between
Seems long tonight
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC