"posturing" poems
Shouting for longevity,
Slamming at the counterers…
- upon your dignified respite!
Would-be detractors without brevity,
Before the wine-dark Sea at night…
A pleading to philosophy of commonly renowned,
Beating sand and posturing, uncouth before a crown;
“Priam please!”
Sun and Moon,
two sons shall plead,
nay, -beg in tandem with the man;
“He serves the seas, trust him please, our father; this priest of Trojan-land!”
Laocoon
“Fear the Greeks, of mind I speak, approval by a van-i-ty; it surely is a death you seek!
An asp this horse, gift no more and tragedy in due remorse,
I beg of you my call to heed, wooden-burnt this crispy steed,
…alight in flame, glorified name; Poseidon shall endorse!”
Priests of Apollo
“Ridiculous! Worship we must, now bring it to the City thus!”
Laocoon
“The actions of accursed Kore,
Need I remind you all Paris caused this war?
For he mocked this god, the abyss it knows, with terror comes a deadly tide,
**** that fool and his fiddling pride!*
Burn this beast we must with haste for Greeks they have a certain taste,
Their acts meant always to confound, wily, since they were unbound.
What harm may do, to rest at shore? Consult the stars of yester-yore.
Assign no chore, one heaven’s night, plus a day, to sit upon our princely shore?”
Setting
(read/spoken at the fastest pace the reader can go)
A horrid hiss above the wave as two doth slither from out the cave…
The creatures from the darkest days, ancient spectacle for the knaves, bear witness to the punishment, commanded by a great trident, hearing screams of bannermen, for King and council a shocking twist, serpents ****** from out the mists, encircling priest and his kin, the howling they had done no sin, never be forgot-ten, as Typhon cried out merrily, serpents and the tragic sea; swallowed up all the three.
Priam
“Farewell dear Laocoon and two sons with thee!” *
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
Why is it those with least to lose
are first to give the most
To walk the fields of Arlington
with too many other ghosts
The generations rested there
sacrificed in all those wars
Do they still feel nobility
when its lacking in the cause
For what is war but posturing
sacrificing others sons
in the name of "threats to freedom"
where most blood shed, decides who's won
Then afterward come treaty's
bits of paper end the war
and I have to ask the question
what was all the killing for?
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 9:57 AM UTC
I take up the gauntlet
Wrestling you, word and rhyme.
Posturing my play afforded,
For a mental good time.
Tatting for ***
This-ing for that
Battling your wit
Prose-ing a chat.
No way to win,
Enticing it may be.
The towel I throw in
You will always beat me!
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
~
Painting a picture of porcupines playing
Pincushions out in the field
Purple and pink for this playful perception
Plans of their purpose revealed
Painful endeavors of pacified pranksters
Presenting a pie at their place
Pecan or pumpkin, pickle, pineapple
Pieces are smeared on their face
Putting the paint on some powder puff paper
Pleasure in each stroke is plied
Pausing to peer at the porcupines playing
Prancing in pansies they hide
Puzzling problems with pretzels and peanuts
Posturing people to prove
Pistachio perfume in prime presentation
Preaches that peaches will move
Polishing pastels on pre-printed pages
Prized the possessions we seek
Paisley the plumes of a peacocks posterior
Portraits now come take a peek
Pampering piccolos play the piano
Pure as a pelican’s prayer
Picking a parcel of plum flavored pudding
Poetic prose fills the air
Pleats in my pants shout in proud proclamation
Puddle my pores they perspire
Poodles on playgrounds prevent prosecution
Plotting my hearts pure desire
Passion precedes every past tense of parting
Piled with a presence so true
Painting a picture while purposely dreaming
Promising my love to you
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
You need a porcelain mixing bowl and a wooden stirring spoon
a cup and a measuring jug.
Add one teaspoon of ripe inconsequentiality.
then add two teaspoons of innate stupidity.
Pour in one cupfull of political lack of integrity
preferably nurtured in hot smelly air.
Add 4 cupsfull of facile celebrity chatter,
preferably with the volume turned down..
Add 2 cupsfull of shallow religious nonsense
full of obsequious morality.
Add 2 cupsfull of vain "god" chatter
and sacrificial demands.
Pour in 1/4 cup of nonsensical "goddess" humbug
and fatuous posturing.
Sift untold millions of youthfull soldiers dried
and powdered bones until finely ground in the crucible
of never ending wars.
Take up the wooden spoon of societal hypocracy
and stir slowly with gossipy backstabbing.
When all these ingredients are blended as smoothly as a shaven young girls **** put to one side covered with a bloodstained cloth for a millennia to rise to the occasion.
Back in an hour
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
Twice around the corner
Thrice around the bend,
Twisting through contortions
Will not make harassment end.
Disparagement aside
There's a lesson to be learnt,
That your overbearing manner
Won't prevent you being burnt.
The reflection in the mirror
Is immaculate and tight,
Actuality shows fractures
Though they're kept well out of sight.
There's a teetering fractiousness,
A blemish to your soul
And no amount of posturing
Will keep the image whole.
Your background is impressive
And scholastically well placed,
Achievement in endeavors
Show you've never been disgraced.
You're social stature's formidable
And your teeth are Oh so white,
Then why is it, that you writhe in bed
In the small hours of the night ?
Why do horrors permeate
The milky hue behind your eyes ?
What source the irritation
When the great majority complies ?
What keeps your ego dominant
When you see the weakness there,
When the light falls on your handiwork
And drives you to despair ?
Twice around the corner
Thrice around the bend,
To camouflage your character
Shall not make your problems end.
Marshalg
@theBach on sick leave
Mangere Bridge
13 October 2009
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 12:31 AM UTC
There were two mighty warriors
whose rule upon the land
were what legends now are sewn upon
each feared by every man
Odin was like a panther
sleek and strong and lithe
nothing less than greatness
was for all that he would strive
Kester was just like a bear
his size gave him great power
over mighty oaks and castle walls
he easily would tower
The warriors began a fight
and the people stood around
peasants Lords and Nobles
threw lamenting on the ground
They fought over who had the right
to be the poet king
folk ran to preserve themselves
as the fists began to swing
Believing they both owned all words
to poetry, verse and prose
both grandiose and posturing
to each a thumb upon their nose
So the fight grew on relentless
both knew it was to death
howling obscenities from Whitman
hurling lines from out Macbeth
Yelling words of literature
pounding blows on blows
quoting Thomas Hardy
and Shakespeare's words of prose
Grabbing Kester's throat
Odin threw him to the floor
like an angry roaring lion
Odin screaming metaphor
Like madmen holding hands
grappling with each others cloak
tearing at each others skin
whose throat they'd love to choke
There had to be a victor
their words shook the city walls
Odin held tight to Kester
and kicked him in the syllables
But no one stood victorious
as poetry's life began to wain
they thrashed it till it bled
not seeing both their shame
Clothes were torn and bruises bloomed
wearing blood upon their trousers
the people cried in unison
"a plague a' both your houses"
As the warriors stood back a step
and looked upon the ground
wounded and in agony
poetry didn't make a sound
No words on lips were uttered
poetry blinked last unto the sun
for its life about was scattered
"My lords look, what have you done?"
And as they wept they looked above
Clouds gathering over head
tears blurred those fated words
on the sky the message... "He is dead"
The warriors stood on trembling knees
with death they both had kissed
the last line they both uttered
"Was sorrow... to this."
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
we all remember
where we were
watching the towers
burn and fall
knowing that things would
never be the same at all
disbelief at first, or
had an action movie
slipped into the news
no, it was real
and then twenty years
of vengeful repercussion
of military posturing
of suffering for many
we watched
the baddies being painted
good and evil
being redefined
virtue confused
impotence and power
conflated
lies and spin
consecrated
truth
alternated
idiot rich guys
promoted
tax for the poor
promulgated
democracy
desecrated
climate destruction
accelerated
by denialist
complacency
inequality
more concentrated
goodness and morality
infiltrated
by posturing political
pus weasels
venal vultures
of self interest
grasping for
short term dominance
and then ..
complacency pervaded
as absurdity
was accepted
as our new state of normal
and the height
of compassion
was owning a dog
and tut tutting
as refugees marched
across our news screens
and now we
bemoan being isolated
from being contaminated
we are mostly relegated
to stay in our mansions
while dinner is contemplated
have you been vaccinated?
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 4:32 AM UTC
ALERTS TO FINANCIAL AND MILITARY THREATS IN 2012 EUROPE
By John Cleese (British writer, actor and tall person):
The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent events in Syria
and have therefore raised their security level from "Miffed" to
"Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to
"Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not
been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies nearly ran
out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to "A ******
Nuisance." The last time the British issued a ****** Nuisance" warning
level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada.
The Scots have raised their threat level from ****** Off" to "Let's get
the ******** They don't have any other levels. This is the reason they
have been used on the front line of the British army for the last 300 years.
The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror
alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France
are "Collaborate" and "Surrender." The rise was precipitated by a recent
fire that destroyed France 's white flag factory, effectively paralyzing
the country's military capability.
Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly"
to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective
Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."
The Germans have increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance"
to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher
levels: "Invade a Neighbor" and "Lose."
Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual; the only threat
they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels.
The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy.
These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish
navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.
Australia , meanwhile, has raised its security level from "No worries" to
"She'll be alright, Mate." Two more escalation levels remain: ****** I
think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend!" and "The barbie is
cancelled." So far no situation has ever
warranted use of the last final escalation level.
A final thought -" Greece is collapsing, the Iranians are getting
aggressive, and Rome is in disarray. Welcome back to 430 BC."
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Five hundred feet from Terrapin Point the Birdman stands with his bicycle. His face as flat as the quarters he begs for, glares at foreign tourists. Two boisterous parrots, Larry and Mabel. They smell like tourists and change, and are footcuffed to three brass chains connected to his backpack. A Muslim family approaches. They want a picture. Birdman places the birds on the hands of the smallest boy, and his mother takes a picture. Mabel squirms. Larry squawks. Click. A reward for their posturing, Birdman places birdseed on his tongue, and the parrots peck away, ignoring his birdbreathe for an evening snack. The tourists clap and laugh at Birdman and toss him their spare change. Birdman stands. Waits. For another family to pose with his birds.
Mabel licks her wings
and Larry says, "Picture pic."
Birdman stands alone.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
Grasping vagrancy in one's child
Most simplistic act is not
Fractured maternal heart bleeds wild
Suffered soul the abyss caught
Crucible ever prevails fraught
Futile remedy ailment breeds
Posturing all heedless things
Neglecting primal earthly needs
Harsh inebriant trappings
Averse entirely lucid pleads
Clamping malady straining chest
Wakeful blackness vanished days
Clutched slight suckling babe at my breast
Cast tears enduring malaise
Reflection of having caressed
Tragic sustinence chosen vile
Sighted resolves not to see
Relentless self imposed exile
Indifferent to love me
Offer life to capture a smile
Grasping vagrancy in one's child
Cognizant of special spot
An alternative to beguiled
Alter processes of thought
I am needing to know she fought
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
What you don’t know is
that I don’t know either.
What makes you stay inside on sunny days
has pestered me as well my whole life.
Shadows of things that would never happen
grew ominous, loomed over my cowering heart
so being a defensive, obsessive ruminator
my hope to make the leaves in my yard
stand still against gusts of wind –
become a psychotherapist
a posturing senex
trailing his wounded child behind
all made OK
with a license to insult you
pretending I know something
you don’t.
Will global warming disappear (?)
just because I know thousands of facts
about worms after rain
about how so many weeds pop up
in freshly-rained soil
underneath even dominating magnolias
and you pay me
to wizen you.
You stare like a mesmerized gazelle
counting the lions
a whole dozen of them
drawing a circle around your life in tall grass.
I want to tell you
run from the need for a resting place
from the pointless mobius strip
of therapy’s semantic banter.
I wish you would tell me
to just be quiet for once
invite me to hike a trail
protected by angels
with just so much sun
enough rain to nurture
and the lions yes
the lions like Fu Dogs
guard the entry to the hills.
I always forget
it isn’t my frustrated reverie
my angst about knowing
how important it is
not to need to know anything
this constant inability
not to daydream
that brought you here
to a leather throne
with an Olympus digital recorder
so you can capture every
single
word.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
Offering aid and comfort to the poor isn't a calling.
It is a commandment.
Something all are to do,
But few attempt.
Rather, we formulate a showdown.
"For the least of these,"
Is how the words of the supposed savior begin.
They may be the most ignored words in the whole book.
Ignored out of sheer inconvenience.
Rather, we formulate a showdown.
The posturing must end.
We either give of ourselves fully, no matter faith,
Or we quit pretending.
We can't do both.
No more manufactured showdowns.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
Beauty is not flowers, given by a lover.
Nor is it meadows and birdsong.
And definitely not the pantomime of Weddings, with their
Hyperbolic declarations and parodies of tailoring on
Bodies too well-fed to house them.
Instead, it is the soft curl of cigarette smoke, blue
And graceful against the grime of a steamed window.
Or in a poky kitchen, the remains of our meal crusting on
Our plates, too absorbed were we in conversation
To even remember the taste.
It is the chuntered breath, just after,
When we are both trying to ignore how bad
We smell, and getting slightly annoyed that our heartbeats are out of sync
And thinking how nice a drink or a shower would be.
It is seagulls beside a river, in a military line, with
White trails of **** Jackson Pollocking down the wall
On which they stood, and how they all took flight one by one
Like dominoes as I approached.
It is certainly not sunsets. After all, they occur every day
And can be captured in a photogaph. It’s the accompanying silence
That makes sunsets special, and that is better found in libraries anyway.
It is somehow more impressive to silence human tongues than watch
The suns tired routine once again.
On a bus full of rowdy, starched schoolboys with filmy faces,
Posturing about experience, Beauty is the one boy reading.
Beauty is not safety. It is daring and bold. Or perhaps it is quiet and
Trying to be ignored, I don’t know. Perhaps we shouldn’t care a jot.
Beauty is that thing that should be ugly,
But is not.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 2:32 PM UTC
This woman I fell in love with
is an enigma, none like her,
I admire her, this quite night.
Flames of desire lick me
when I even think of
her voluptuous softness
wearing shimmering black.
She prides in what she is,
doesn't pretend
as someone else.
Darkness is her
without any apology
though she owns a brilliant
cosmic jewelry shop;
only she can display diamonds
looking different in every minute,
each more dazzling than the other.
Without any arrogance or
posturing that suggests invincibility,
she surrenders all she has,
when sun demands it,
with the confidence that
when she'd come back
after a hiatus, she will be no less.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
All these whinging intellectual poetic wankers,
scribbling Conditional Love "poems"that boringly
lament why they are such obvious failures
at the game of life and self realisation.
Spewing out weasel words of poetic hypocracy while
wrapped in navel gazing infantile emotions.
Writing degenerate untruthful words about a love
they'll never know or never have known,
as if unconditional love can be bought
at the local Walmart.
Voluntarily assisting the machinations of mind and groupmind,
since their birth into a lifetime of Conditioned Identity,
in the servitude of the Amerikan Oligarchy .
Strings of meaningless associated words,
lines of lies about life and love that are ever popular with "poets".
Starting with every one of the so-called "holy" books
from millennia past--calling for suicide bombers
and child killers to strut the world stage
spewing religious racism and sexism like enlightened beings..
After all words have NO SHAME
nor have poets..
Sin Verguensa.
Words have NO GUILT
nor have poets.
Words have NO EMBARASSMENT
nor have poets.
You cannot hide behind your lies from me.
I see you--I have nous.
Your beard is transparent.
Your unceasing lies deny to others information
to which they are entitled,
"poets" are the worst LIARS of all,
so easily spottable .
Read these pages--see for yourself,
through my eyes .
See the silly shit-fed children of the Amerikan Oligarchy,
wrapped in spangles and colours --posturing like super-heroes.
Vomiting verbal diahorea in lifes gutters,
appealing for just one more chance
to play at love and humiliation.
People with low IQs and lower morals
pretending ,as always, to be mature and human,
characters moulded like products of talk show hosts .
No integrity.
No truthfulness.
No honour.
No decency.
No morals except those learned from Readers Digest.
No to these escapees from the gallows of decency,
torture instruments dangling round their necks,
their prophet validated by being nailed and denied.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Our God is really excellent
At death and genocide.
How we love to celebrate
How many folks have died.
We always feel better about life
And the wonderful heavenly joy
When we’ve murdered some foreigner's wife.
Or when we put to death girls and boys.
It is so commendable of humans
To execute those who are different
Or if they commit the cardinal sin
Of being some kind of sick dissident
Who refuses to do what we want
Like maybe lying down and acquiescing
Or refusing to shut up and play along with
Our political posturing and window dressing.
And is is all sacred and very holy;
Every bit of it is hidden by claims
That all genocide and bigotry
Is committed in our God’s name,
Unless the genocide and prejudice
Is directed anywhere near us.
The we whip out our Bibles and cry
And make a self-righteous fuss.
The Golden Rule applies to all
Except heathens and non-Caucasians.
And then it’s a noose, SWAT team or
At least an *** for every occasion.
Because killing people is terrible;
It is simply not the proper way
To deal with all of life’s issues,
Unless we want to, then it’s okay.
And all of it is by The Good Book
If the right verses are selected.
The American Bible is written to insure
The right people are not neglected.
And everyone should worship
And join the Living God’s legions
And be exactly like he lived life:
A blond-haired, blue eyed Norwegian.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 6:42 AM UTC
We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'
You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .
How many others like ourselves, this instant,
Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?
How many others, laughing, sip their coffee--
Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .
'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)
When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:
And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.
Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter
What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play?
'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,--
Posturing like bald apes before a mirror;
No pity dims our eyes . . .
How many others, like ourselves, this instant,
See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .'
Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . .
When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly,
And even those most like angels creep for schemes.
The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you,
Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.
But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring,
Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons
To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . .
And all these others who at your conjuration
Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,--
Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important,
Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces,
Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,--
Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting
This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways,
Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter,
Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows,
Lean to the music, rise,
And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion
With kindness in their eyes . . .
They say (as we ourselves have said, remember)
'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us!
And how it brings to mind forgotten things!'
They say 'How strange it is that one such evening
Can wake vague memories of so many springs!'
And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places,
They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime,
And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree.
With secret symbols they play on secret passions.
With cunning eyes they see
The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling,
The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . .
The pendulum on the wall
Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling;
Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all.
1.3k
Safe inside my beehive
Picking cobwebs off the honeycomb
At the heart of this shipwreck
The devil keeps me lukewarm
Suckin' out the red sea
Then parting ways with bad dreams
By way of a submarine ark
Carried by the gust of shooting stars
Boney fingers on the steering wheel
Fingernails dug into the leather
If the sky preaches parades
We'll be in for nasty weather
Landfall calls for mongrels
On crippled horses
Salivating for a sister of mercy
Or any kind of company
Erase me, help me
Before he gets me
I've never seen his face
Just his mafioso posturing
Push me, pull me
Let the sirens scream
I'm too scared to sleep
In the jaws of the peripheral
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 11:32 PM UTC
“They sentenced me to 20 yrs of boredom
For trying to change the system from within” L. Cohen
After all the posturing was over
And the last attempts at honesty passed away
He saw the victims of the system heading out to sea
Coral wreaths held them
Their eyes shone like stars in the waters
Crawling on the beach,
His last strength flowing out with the tide
He saw the faces of broken-hearted children,
Jealous lovers, sadistic losers, failed prophets and criminal con-men
All crying for another chance
Another ride on the roller coaster
After a time, their cries became the sounds of gulls
A new morning beginning to brighten the waters
Now he lay on his side, trying to breathe
Almost asleep when he first saw her
Bare footed, she was wearing something white or gold
Floating around her
She seemed to be laughing
Every step she took left a brief shining print on the sand
At first, he didn’t think she’d notice him
Just another piece of tidal wreckage
But then
She was there
Her arms around him
And he fell asleep in the warmth of the sun
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
Called-up to muster on the streets,
Lay siege with pencils and paper shields,
Place couplet sentries on every corner,
March in-step with iambic feet,
Shoulder prosaic figures of speech.
Launch antithesis and irony,
Landmine metaphors and similes.
The poets engage guerilla warfare,
Surrounding the body politic
To water board with words and wit.
Our units are indeterminate,
Smearing ink for camouflage.
Be wary of everyone you meet,
Every tree lining your street;
We're making notes in small black pads,
To explicate the nots and haves.
Pens are shovels digging trenches,
Editing walls and blue pencilling fences,
Giving refuge to the marginalized,
From the onslaught of towering directives.
We're parading in our uniforms,
Raising banners, ragged and torn,
Calling on all to weather the storm,
To brace against cyclonic edicts
That swirl and funnel from posturing egots.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC
I see them still,
From time to time,
Their goofy smiles,
Their laughing eyes.
Still hear their *******
Their growled complaints,
Their farts in the night,
from five bunks down.
The relentless joke telling,
The brotherly jabs.
Still see their sad empty eyes
When no mail from home arrives.
Oh and the lists of things
That they would do,
When back they'd go,
Into the World,
Added to daily, always growing.
Get that new Camaro,
"Set them tires on fire!",
Cruse the strip back home
and pick up chicks.
Put on their Class A,
And strut down the block.
Find that foxy girl from English class,
And make her his wife.
Tell his old man,
to actually **** Off!"
We were but boys,
Too eager and green,
Posturing and playing at being men.
What I wonder, would they have become,
Given the chance to grow to a man?
Young lives cut short by ballistic pain.
So now still they linger, boys they remain,
Night visions left in the mud and the rain.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Overcome,
Programmed years in technological mind mission
To control, then dominate one’s thinking vision
Overcome,
Ingrained behavior taught since the inception
To confine movement in the viewed perception
Overcome,
Battled sexes posturing for the top billing
To uphold, then maintain movie star rating
Overcome,
Perpetuated bigotry in narrow-minded fear
To confuse truth with deceptions we hear
Overcome,
Chained hatred from a past mauled by meetings
To render, then leave one’s will conflicting
Overcome,
Programmed desires to reprogram life simply
To live without love and kindness openly.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
Girl No. 1 wears her jeans cuffed and hates everyone but the Jets. Her voice is honey-thick around biting words. Smiling does not come easy to her. She wears her face like a mask—big glasses, big eyes, big quiet. When I see her, she lifts her hand in a grim wave, delta creases in her brown palm. Her excuse for her silence is that she’s boring, but she’s not. She dots her eyes with tiny stars and listens to German orchestra whenever she can. She thinks she has buried herself well, but bits of her still protrude from the topsoil, aching to be known.
Girl No. 2 is grey flannel and deliberate sentences. Her hair covers her face, yet when she speaks about trees and animals and the hole torn in our atmosphere by ultraviolet, ultraviolent rays, she is thunder. I gave her lotion for her cracked hands one time. When we smiled at each other after, we knew at once we were part of the same club. Girl No. 2 never corrects people when they forget her name. They say Kaitlyn, Kaleigh, Katie…let the word drop as if it were no more important than a used napkin. I hate it. I pick her used napkin name from the floor and smooth it over my lap. I say it right and she replies, with perfect seriousness, thank you: Thank you for the correct pronunciation of my identity.
Girl No. 3 is a hard one. Look at her once and you’ll see Maybelline lashes and a glass-cutting face. Look twice and you’ll see more. The sag of her shoulders, the stinging weariness of posturing for people far beneath her. I startle her. I’m too inquisitive for her taste. She does not want the world knowing her mother drank three liters of ***** before driving off a bridge, that her favorite color is celery green, or that anorexia and anxiety stalked her through the halls of high school like a pair of vultures. She wants to stay in her castle of ice, but it has imprisoned her. You poet, she teases me. You right-brained heap of color and sensitivity. You’re too much. I don’t know what to do with you. I ask her who she is and she recites her answer. 130, 125, 2315. But this girl is more than her IQ, her weight, or her SAT score, and when I tell her so, her Maybelline lashes are ruined.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
An empire built on enslavement
conquering and plunder
striving to maintain order
via censorship in a modern milieu
the irony isn't lost on me
watched the news today
a self declared expert
cited a rather lengthy inventory of mass murders
a veritable host of troubled people
he seemed well informed
but half dead inside
as if something was internally devouring him
an expert in stolid stage craft
oblivious to his self inflicted harm
until he watched the playbacks that evening
pretending, posturing, play-acting, contrived concerns
now collapsed in a fit on the floor
groveling pitiful fragment
vomiting bourbon tears
out of sight, above detection
by them
the watchers
tomorrow, a different city
another "shooting spree"
another interview
another barren bereft onslaught of absurd rhetorical questions
hand ringing, and staged pandering consolations
another pallid parroting reporter who thanks you for "tuning in."
"next up, Sports!"
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC