"prod" poems
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
I feel the scratch
of the itchy cotton gown
on the narrows of my back
as it climbs up and down
Displayed I lye on the medical tables hard cold steel
It seers into the crevices of my bones
I ponder the lone window and wonder if it's real
I listen for the bleep and bloop of medical tones
Nurses walk by in a mechanical grace
poke and **** & tap and touch my face
and then proceed to leave without a trace
with no hint of knowledge of my medical case
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
I'm a big girl, I'm a big girl
I begin to chant in a simple rhythm
as small as a ball I begin to curl
I'm abandoned inside this glassy prism
The dead silence creeps inside my brain
I want to scream to fill the deadly gap
but the cold thick air of silence brings pain
I comfort myself and say it will be ok
My breathing begins to quicken
my eyes dart around the room
only comfort is the fear which I am stricken
my sight goes bleary as darkness looms
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Tears sting the corner of my eyes
I want someone to hold my hand
Oh God how I want to cry
but the only thing there is the bleeding arm band
The test begins with the thickness of barium
It slides down my throat and clings to my esophagus
It tastes like chalk and pandemonium
they want me to suffocate I guess
I chug and chug as the pictures are snapped
x-ray upon x-ray of my stomach and my back
Drink more Drink more They tell me to do
Nervously I shake and say, anymore and I will puke on you
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Even more poking and prodding ensues
but of my stomach, ribs and *******
I lay rigid as a board from the pain of each touch
I grow weary of this tiresome rues
The tests are done
and the coast is clear
I am left alone
to dress myself in fear
Dismissed and discharged to walk away
they file my chart with a robotic smile
now for the wait of endless days
I'm lost in my mind's land of emotional exile
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Pins & Needles Pins & Needles
I wait for the results
Is it stomach cancer, an ulcer or both??
In the dark I am kept like followers in cults.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
Reinaldo was the name they gave the great white elephant
Who came to clear the jungles around Sao Paulo
A clever notion that because Reinaldo was born in the jungle
Any jungle would do just fine, Brazilian or Siamese made no difference
Just as clever was the notion that because I was a black man, educated
I would do just fine directing other black men to do work, English or Portuguese made no difference
Was I truly so much a fool, twice over?
Reinaldo occasionally was afflicted with slothfulness
Some of the men thought it was from lack of **** and whip
I was of a mind that it was due to lack of companionship
It was costly enough to ship one giant beast across a great sea
I left a wife, in Maryland, whom I never loved and who never loved me
I admit before the plan was in motion I never considered that Reinaldo could have a family
Sometimes, I wonder, did he have a wife who never loved him?
Loneliness became a common theme in our new home away from home
And Reinaldo and I became friends, at least I thought of him fondly
As far as I could say, of all the men he responded best to me
At times it seemed a load of lumber was hauled as a personal favor
For the handler too soft to handle with fear and anger
But as much as loneliness was a theme, so was change, and death
The lifespan of an elephant compares to the lifespan of men
Were this scheme of mine to have worked as desired
I could have sent for a cow, and made Reinaldo a sire
Soon it was revealed that slothfulness was a symptom of an elephant young, healthy and wise
Who sensed not his own, but a friend's imminent demise
Now I am left to wonder how Reinaldo will fare in a world stranger than I could have known
His softest handler and only friend bedridden, waiting for my disease to take its final toll
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
Lead us, Evolution, lead us
Up the future's endless stair;
Chop us, change us, **** us, **** us.
For stagnation is despair:
Groping, guessing, yet progressing,
Lead us nobody knows where.
Wrong or justice, joy or sorrow,
In the present what are they
while there's always jam-tomorrow,
While we tread the onward way?
Never knowing where we're going,
We can never go astray.
To whatever variation
Our posterity may turn
Hairy, squashy, or crustacean,
Bulbous-eyed or square of stern,
Tusked or toothless, mild or ruthless,
Towards that unknown god we yearn.
Ask not if it's god or devil,
Brethren, lest your words imply
Static norms of good and evil
(As in Plato) throned on high;
Such scholastic, inelastic,
Abstract yardsticks we deny.
Far too long have sages vainly
Glossed great Nature's simple text;
He who runs can read it plainly,
'Goodness = what comes next.'
By evolving, Life is solving
All the questions we perplexed.
Oh then! Value means survival-
Value. If our progeny
Spreads and spawns and licks each rival,
That will prove its deity
(Far from pleasant, by our present,
Standards, though it may well be).
10.2k
Father could reprogram all six billion of us
if He felt the need, anytime
In fact that's exactly what He did
at Babel when our dodgy one-accord
threatened to bring the end nearer
than the six millenniums of earthtime
He'd allocated for us to seek His truth
He even re-wired Balak for a minute
to hear his donkey speak
and think of the Assyrians that fled
when He caused four lepers to sound
like a mighty mercenary army
coming to rescue Jerusalem
YHWH is omnipotent, like it not
The reason He's not 'interfering' right now
is simply because His plan is dead on time
He intends to blow the chaff from His wheat
The true wheat, His remnant that stays faithful
(through Revelations and the mark)
will form a new constitution when Yeshua returns
for a thousand years of peace on earth
You may think "Oh I'll wait and see
if it's true, like, if the two witnesses
really die and then rise again in three days"
Problem with that approach is simple
You could be brainwashed before then
The neurophone is widely used today
Think of 911, why Bush isn't impeached
and read surveillanceissues.com
Those of us who really care
will continue to bug you and **** your spirit
Hopefully you'll make the right choice
and refuse the mark of the beast
Consider these things while there's time
'After me the storm' won't cut it
There are less than three short years to go
* Gen 6:3 And Jehovah said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, in his erring; he is flesh. Yet his days shall be a hundred and twenty years.
The 120 years referred to here in fact represent 120 jubilees, or 6000 years (2000 from Adam to the flood, 2000 from the flood to Yeshua and 2000 from Yeshua till 2017)
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 2:37 AM UTC
I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.
So why not get started immediately.
I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.
And to write music or poems about.
Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.
You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a ****
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.
Mary Oliver
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
My body is tossed about by violent jolts that fling my unwilling and powerless self about,
a helpless prisoner within.
Even without breath my chest still contorted,
making the pain sting, poke, and **** with every up and down.
Of course,
I am afflicted with hiccups.
I put my small sufferings into poetic sequence in an unconscious attempt at being rid of them.
They're gone.
Going through the short poem,
Correcting little errors.
Up
Down
Jolt
Sting
****
They're back
Of course,
I am afflicted with hiccups.
Hiccups are *****
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
My god is love
Your god is God
I know it sounds odd
I wish to be cod
That swim through your veins
Until I go insane
Invading your mind
So I may know your kind
I have to tip my hat
When you say the world is flat
And I shift into a stiffer constitution
When you say you don't believe in evolution
My love is strictly fundamental
Our differences infinitesimal
I cannot deny
This temptation inside
This inflation of mine
I want to walk with you like Jesus
If in that moment you could freeze us
I'd believe forever
Through any endeavor
That two gods were merged
And true odds were purged
My life would be surged
Into perfection
By a reception
Love is a fabled fraud on the scene
Until I find a god in the machine
You heretically hide in between
Fields of green and wet dreams
Your smile takes me there
To realize we're no pair
So I become Cthulhu
In order to fool you
When you're the giant squid
And I'm just a kid
If I want to be caught in your tendrils
I'll have to work on my fundamentals
I dream of Athena
After you make Cupid look stupid
While holding a noose
With the power of Zeus
But I still want more
To hammer like Thor
Yet after all my plotting
I'm still frozen like Skadi
When I face a titanic task
I wear a panicked mask
Obtaining a reluctant martyr's luck
When my emotions run hot as ****
I face the wrath of god
Inside your cattle ****
So I wait like the Buddha
Wishing I never knew ya
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 5:09 AM UTC
I steal her hand, sit by her side
A whispered tone, a swift goodbye
I kiss her deep, and she is gone
I feel too weak to be so strong
I stand up straight, begin to shake
I clench my knees to keep my shape
I stand again, and am not sure
That I can fight, or will endure
I slowly turn the clockwork ****
The old wood groans the more I ****
My loved ones all sweep into view
They act, but they all know the news
A tiny figure takes my side
She grips my leg, begins to cry
I take her up, I kiss her head
I let her cry till tears are dead
I look down at my little girl
I see my wife, emotions swirl
My eyes go red, a heart torn deep
But I have promises to keep
And years to go before I weep
And years to go before I weep
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:04 AM UTC
the word came out of your mouth
as sharp as a blade
and
easy for you to say
but hard for me to swallow
as easy for you to say
as it was for the three letters to
gut me from the inside
out
yes
i have come to hold animosity toward
the one syllable word.
my chest bursts open like
a black hole
******* every last bit of my happiness
away
gone into the never ending vastness
of darkness
i felt my lungs
collapse
but almost as if the word itself
had frozen my breath
as it left your lips
and with it went
my windpipe and lungs
you looked at me with those
crystal blue eyes
and my insides imploded, sending
each shard of ice
to poke and **** at my heart
just like
you.
W
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
**** me.
Here I go again, meeting a blue eyed boy and tripping myself into a trap, catching feelings and getting infected more than I should. His tremendous fingertips tuck against mine, making mine tremble in a way I forgot they could. My fingers are dwarves against his, trying to hold onto something tangible, something real, as he breathes heavy air my way and I giggle, unable to handle the seriousness.
**** me.
Because this is serious. We laugh and poke and **** and joke but when I look into his eyes, I know. I know for once this is something far more serious than a fling, than dating, than any of it. He is my friend and we are standing here bare to each other and we are not turning away, not hiding unto ourselves, we are basking in the glory of each other's nakedness and loving it.
**** me.
Each time he touches my side I feel a flutter and a yearning that I haven't felt so strong in a long time. He is touching me, and kissing me, and each moment I wait for the next touch, the next kiss, I go crazier and crazier. I crave his hands on mine, on my body, on all of me, and I can't handle it.
**** me.
Pull me down onto you and make me feel something I've never felt before. Make me forget all those other boys to the point only you exist and I exist and that's all that matters. Make me feel beautiful naked. Make me real. Make yourself unforgettable.
**** me.
I'm falling in love with him.
Hard.
****
Me.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
The shady green of the giant Oak tree,
Clash against the crimson,
Staining her shirt as she lies still,
Under the shade of the Oak tree.
The silhouette of her lover,
Dark against the morning sky,
A knife in hand and tears apparent,
Leaves her dead, against the Oak tree.
A few Oak leaves fall,
Covering her with the eerie green,
Burying her under a blanket of color.
The seasons change,
The leaves crumbling,
Turning to dust as it becomes fall.
The fall of his lover,
By his hands he stained her crimson.
The stench is met by men in black,
Loathing their work as they
Probe, **** poke,
Thinking about how she was stained crimson.
They leave and take her with them,
The looming Oak tree waving a goodbye in the wind,
A single leaf floating down,
A single parting gift is given.
Oh, the Oak tree,
The few roots stained crimson,
The few leaves soaked in blood,
The small blades of grass matching,
Waving in the breeze with the Oak tree.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Boundless dusk above forsaken intuitions
Stones with ancient seeds
Yet the roots can breathe
The earthly exuberance
The naked secret of our song
That manipulates my tounge
Redden from you and I
The contact of our lips
Simulating my hunger for your groin
The nerves of my vertebrates harbor your weight
As my breast shudder from your touch
Primal delicious desires
I thirst for the fluids of your flesh
With nurture and greed
I moisten your fingers
Help you find my sensitive pearl
Relishing the trail of the garden of youth
Primal delicious desires explode in need
Delicate softness of my mystical place
Lifting my body with much response
As my fingers dance, pinch and **** at my peaks
Repeatedly as you ****** me
I gasp and beg for your caress
I shudder as I chase my wave
Reaching as I whimper into a ******
Simulating my hunger for your groin
Inflaming my pores
I enlarge you ever so slow
Working my hands holding you from behind
One swift lick of your rigid flesh
You pull in a lungful of air
Your hot flesh started to grow
I ease you into my mouth
Circling as you keep the pace
Against me you put me in deep
The sweet taste of you makes me weak
Intense intervals underneath
Between your thighs
Intoxicating the very layers of my juice
I enlarge you once again
Moist and ready
I open my sweetness just for you
As I arch down onto you
Your hands rest on my hips
I begin to feel my flower grow
A whispering rouse escapes from my lungs
We flow inside each another
Deeper in my heat
Your aggressive arousal
Provoking me to quiver
The barrier surrenders to you and I
Vivid blossoms of tranquil harmony
Through the gateway of my womanhood
As you nurish the nutrients you covet for
My protruding pale pink buds
Plump with need
I'd hollow out to place you inside
I'd linger in this universe to pave your delicious desire
As you surrender pushing me down
You penetrate my mouth once again
As you reclaim my mouth soft and pink
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Wake up
It's Monday
Lace up your shoes
Walk out the door
No one to notice anymore
There's no one here anymore
Wake up
It's Tuesday
Makeup your face
Walk straight to work
To get a good tip just flirt
Smile so it doesn't have hurt
Wake up
It's Wednesday
Comb out your hair
Go through the rain
The wet can hide the pain
That's on your face in stains
Wake up
It's Thursday
Look in the mirror
Avoid your eyes
Don't listen to empty lies
To whispers in their eyes
Wake up
It's Friday
Brush your teeth
Swallow all fear
No one left to listen here
None to shout, **** or jeer
Wake up
It's Saturday
Click out your notes
Play back the laughs
You've recorded in drafts
Not much ever seems to last
Wake up
It's Sunday
Button your dress
Go pray at church
Tell yourself it all has worth
How could it get any worse
Wake up
It's Monday
Lace up your shoes
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
I got scars on my wrists
Cause there are scars on my heart
Held together by seams
That are falling apart
I see the crimson pain
Fall on the floor
There is still no feeling gained
And there’s a knock at the door
I wipe it away
I pretend and I play
To be just fine
Just so I can hide
My friends aren’t what they seam
Because they’re letting go
My heart starts to go numb
And my death is feeling slow
You say your heart is numb
Because there’s no desire
But mine is not the same
Because it’s filled with fire
I feel every little spark
When you poke and **** my heart
When I am faced with hate
My mind is set ablaze
Your rivers are frozen and dry
But mine are flowing through my windows
It doesn’t mean you don’t cry
But I have soaked my pillows
Your empty desert eyes
Are different from this ocean of mine
But neither one matters
Because we both wave bye from inside
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 8:08 AM UTC
"What's going on in that head of yours?" you inquire.
I shrug and shake my head, trying to make the question slip-slide its way past me.
"Something. I can tell," you **** on.
I don't exactly know how to explain the hodgepodge of thoughts bustling around up there.
How all of the mismatched puzzle pieces sometimes inexplicably manage to assemble themselves into a picture, but it always comes out distorted.
How my mind is eternal dusk, that magical moment where anything is possible and the night is full of promise. But remember, that's also when the monsters come out to play.
How I have this uncanny ability to skew every word, look, or memory until every one of them is so tainted I will burn us alive while you wonder what the hell is going on. I'm good at sabotage, you see.
You don't want to know what's going on in this head of mine. You can try to connect the dots, but none of them are numbered, and you'll lose yourself attempting to understand me.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
are feelings of love felt alone, feelings of love at all?
or selfish yelps for attention borne
of boredom & a sense we only hold on our own
of childish
- - - - idleness.
singularity less; more independence from a whole
the only company he keeps is furniture
together with the furniture of the house he sits,
with seven seats left empty,
the curtains tales appear to grin
without validation from another he feels
like a child standing
the school's final bells rung
the bustle of the day has droned
now dissipated
the bustle of the day irritated
when it droned, he longed for home
for the bus
as he waits for the bus the quiet surrounds hold tight
but hold cold
like a fridge door keeps, it clutches, encloses
the school yard empty
he stands; singular; out of place in the surrounds
the school bleeds terror when empty
The laughs & shouts & jeers & footsteps
keep the wholesomeness whole
empty of shouts
a graveyard now
the ghosts of the day linger
& they finger
your buttons they push
your tenderness they kneed out
they **** (with their cold digits they ****
just like the furniture does.
just like the furniture in the house laughs
when uninhabited
it silently jeers
'Why so many seats mate?' it pokes with its linen digit; fuzzy but cold
as it continues
'you're alone
waiting for someone
to come by and pick u up
& take u back to home
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
I ate some raspberries today
They were cold
And sweet
And soft
But their seeds get stuck in my teeth
They just sit
And ****
And poke
Until I get them out
Jan 28, 2022
Jan 28, 2022 at 5:26 PM UTC
too often you **** me with your
monosyllabic question: your lips
form it, so gradually, and hence,
inquisitively, that i, i would not
miss that diphthong you emphasised,
that question of why - yet too often
i find myself unable to proceed
beyond because...
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 4:24 AM UTC
you are essentially an object to me.
no one dare invent words that pick and **** and litter our ears
with shards of doubt, dismissive declarations.
the victorious are those who cover their ears and screen their eyes from
someone else's misery: bruised knuckles and a wall that wouldn't budge.
but all I see is a woman crumpled on the floor, her pride
posed like a crow on a branch in the open window frame,
mocking her failing strength and shattered resolve;
someone's fist tingles with accomplishment
for putting that Thing in her place,
close to her true place,
on the shelf
she dusts and polishes fastidiously,
lest he call her out on her "half-assed attempt,"
no one dare invent words
that limit little girls to the plastic boxes
for their plastic dolls
with plastic smiles.
when the seed grows buds,
that become flourishing leaves on a solid stem,
reaching up, up, up
can they see me yet?
but all they want is the fruit.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
When will this suspicion
Go into remission?
Splitting like nuclear fission
Is their miserable mission
So they poke and ****
Claiming I'm a fraud
Thinking they're my god
Which seems kind of odd
Because they know so little
And I know so much
I play them like a fiddle
Then eat them for lunch
For when it comes to raging rhetoric
I prove myself to be the better *****
They turn suspicious
So I become vicious
And treat them like *******
Because all of their wishes
Are of being capable witches
So they can morph me into a frog
Maybe then I'll hope on their log
And live the limited life they want
But they'll always tease and taunt
So my sensitive secrets I'll flaunt
To disarm their negative notions
Yet that's a never ending ocean
We live in a world of suspicion
With a hatred ignition
We live in a world that's a prison
A world that's sad to envision
Where everyone's a guard
And everyone is charred
By the judge
Who throws sludge
At the fragile mirror
To make hatred clearer
We must break the lawyers' locks
And sell their suspicious stocks
For when we fear one another
We don't hear one another
Communication goes
Suspicion grows
That's the flow
While we sit in our vaults
Hoping that this halts
But it never stops
In a world of cops
A world that's continually turning
While suspicion keeps burning
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 4:47 AM UTC
Back in my rebel days (yester)
I sported a spelunking bumper sticker
On my 1972 VW pop-up camper van
That read Free Floyd Collins
Totally apolitical well intentioned humor
Concerning one of my pasttimes that surprisingly
Never maimed or killed me
Whilst reporting for an official call for jury duty
The uptight and obviously a **** (did I just say that?)
Prosecutor enquired during jury selection
As to whether any of us prospectives
Had bumper stickers and if so
What they might say
The NRA sticker guy next to me
And the I'd Rather Be Fishin' and NASCAR
Sticker guy next to him
Passed with smugly flying colors
(red needless to say)
While the 72 year old nun
With the Amnesty International sticker
Didn't fair so well
And was promptly burned at the stake
(I kid you)
Needless to say
The long-haired Harvard educated
Native American
With the Doctors Without Borders
And the Remember Wounded Knee
With a not so discreet AIM sticker thrown in to boot
Also got the boot
Pondering the merits of the court stenographer's
Shapely fingers while judiciously confidently awaiting my turn
It never ocurred to me that Mr. Collins might be
So wrongly accused as to have me
Rejected and summarily ejected
From jury duty
A travesty of justice
I say
If for no other reason than I was so looking forward to
Sticking it to the Man
You can imagine my surprise and disappointment
As I wandered down to the Shamrock
To catch Terry O'Leary do a slam
And raise a glass to
Bobby Sands
r~ 22Feb14
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
everybody flock to the hottest product
grab it, **** it, buy it, stock it
it's hypnotic, they got into our pockets
while at the top the profits rocket
some guy in a suit and tie
tries to decide what we might buy
a new idea for a new device
a shiny prize is yours for a price
everybody flock to the hottest product
grab it, **** it, buy it, stock it
it's hypnotic, they got into our pockets
while at the top the profits rocket
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage,
Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight
Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The reeds are heavy; bent;
and the bamboos speak as if weeping.
Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes
against sunset
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
Behind hill the monk’s bell
borne on the wind.
Sail passed here in April; may return in October
Boat fades in silver; slowly;
Sun blaze alone on the river.
Where wine flag catches the sunset
Sparse chimneys smoke in the cross light
Comes then snow scur on the river
And a world is covered with jade
Small boat floats like a lanthorn,
The flowing water closts as with cold. And at San Yin
they are a people of leisure.
Wild geese swoop to the *******
Clouds gather about the hole of the window
Broad water; geese line out with the autumn
Rooks clatter over the fishermen’s lanthorns,
A light moves on the north sky line;
where the young boys **** stones for shrimp.
In seventeen hundred came Tsing to these hill lakes.
A light moves on the South sky line.
State by creating riches shd. thereby get into debt?
Thsi is infamy; this is Geryon.
This canal goes still to TenShi
Though the old king built it for pleasure
K E I M E N R A N K E I
K I U M A N M A N K E I
JITSU GETSU K O K W A
T A N FUKU T A N K A I
Sun up; work
sundown; to rest
dig well and drink of the water
dig field; eat of the grain
Imperial power is? and to us what is it?
The fourth; the dimension of stillness.
And the power over wild beasts.
2.6k