"proprietor" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
[Hashtag]MeToo
Here it goes again,
trending on Insta and Facebook.
Where real awareness stems.
Mind the sarcasm,
social media’s a powerful tool
not knockin’ that.
I wonder though,
does the mind of the follower
understand the context of the hash?
Do they get it should be a call to action?
Not necessarily at the keyboard.
More like on the couch with their children,
Giving the conversation of consent.
Most people do not even understand it by definition .
The meaning of yes and no convoluted by scenario.
Bias boils over like milk and water over full flame.
The posts bubble out and stick to the side of the pan,
quickly drying; leaving their mark.
Until the soap and warm water flows over them,
and the steam evaporates the confessions.
Until they are again whispers we all hear and know.
It’s whispers from the alley ways,
and from married couples bedroom doors.
The woman is the property,
the man is the proprietor.
We refuse to address the real problems,
the failures of our up-bringers.
We point fingers and slay names
yet the statistics provide the truth.
One in four for females, one in sixteen for males.
We all have been violated, slandered, and forced to say
[Hashtag]MeToo
Not going to say I did not share it,
I know the touch of unwanted hands,
the invasive ***********
All for the sake of the insanity,
in repeating a useless gesture.
The only difference is
My hashtag went to my Senator.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
Mozart,
deaf,
died, eventually.
Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died
(on the toilet).
Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,
died.
Plath,
head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Woolf
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-
River. River Phoenix. Drugs.
Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.
Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
gone.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes
OK, let's start:
A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.
Start again:
Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.
Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties
Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub
Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part
What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice
And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it
Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
A vehement deity,
father of a carpenter,
and proprietor of creationism,
looked down upon his work,
both literally and figuratively.
When an ecosystem falls to the
egocentricity of man, a vessel
will be sought, and contained is
the righteousness of a mortal.
Serenity became inclination, and
with loss of the feminine beauty
came regret. For sin masqueraded
as black clouds, and whether
change occurs, torrential rain begets
growth in an environment. Wash over
the sins of the ****** what is current
can only be exposed as a fallacy when
revelation is prevalent,
and save for the innocent:
innocuous.
Even in Hell a cyprus tree would be
surrounded by wildflowers.
Noah knew not of damnation, and
with calloused hands raised to the sky,
a hammer came crashing down.
Not unlike stone tablets
etched with command,
the world lay on granite,
with a universal epitaph.
For Noah to ignore his destiny
would be blasphemous.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Surrealism gone Awry
Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!
Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.
My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built Cadillac by Saoutchick.
Where everything utter is true.
Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
a harelipped man walked into a liquor store and walked up to the proprietor and said gimme a bottle of gin.
and the proprietor said to himself "why THIS dumb son of a ***** I'll have some fun with him!"
He said "What kind would you like?"
"You mean theres more than one kind?"
"Yessir theres 3"
"What are they?"
"Hydrogen, Oxygen and Nitrogen"
"Thats right" Said the harelip.
and theres three kinds of turds too.
"What do you mean?"
"Mustard. Custard. AND YOU YOU BIG SACK OF ****
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 4:43 PM UTC
Raw flesh drenched in alcohol
Burning numbing till paralyzed, keeps me still
Power you have over my being, keeps me fearing
Your presence destroys me, shatters me
Feeling naked, inadequate when my eyes see
My reflection's negation in you
Cannot hide anything when you expose all of me
Wounded animal beaten without avail
Knowing, proprietor of my pain
You don't understand my whimper, wail?
My blood being diluted by the sweat of your laborious efforts
Precociously tactful, inhumanly strangling my will
Ever-becoming antithesis to facades, fears, farces in me
Facing scalpels and clamps to my insecurities, my tactics, my pride
Leaving me open not caring if I'll die from exposure
Caring only that you're exposing the real me
I-nvoluntarily l-acerated, o-n the v-erge of e-nding u-ndone
Somberly Always Unsettling Leaving me bare
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
I could never be Raglan the knife man
nor a slippery Thames eel.
I haven't enough apologies
that heed wings.
In the act of caprice
borne musket and grape
I floored Thomas Avery,
Tavern proprietor
who lay cold as ecclesiastical stone,
having raptured my Ussela
in cheery Bishopsgate.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
I remember walking back from school
the tenner for the bus ride in my pocket
There would be a row over why I had taken so long
But I'd gulp the sondesh down, and it'd be forgotten
The grey haired proprietor of the sweetmeat store
wore a perennial smile on his face
And sometimes I wondered if he had ever been sad
How could he with those sweets on his silver trays?
I learned to grasp the concept of gravity
when a piece of sweetmeat went down my throat
And then a lesson on quick mathematics
when the shopkeeper stretched his palm for what I owed
But sadly the chemistry book had no formula for me
to turn sugar and milk to that special treat
The report card was skewed, and the scolding that ensued
Was only remediated by my favourite sweet
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
a poet who taught college
night school ventured out
during the day to find rare
books of poetry to assign
his class to read out loud;
a small bookshop destined
to fail opened up on the
sunny north eastern corner;
selling no books at all, the
enterprising intellectual
proprietor resigned to the
inevitable but was surprised
when the poet [seldom
seen during the day & she
had never seen him before]
burst through the door &
demanded she order all the
books on a handwritten list,
shoving it in her face; so
overwhelmed she stayed
late at the bookstore on the
telephone & computer
ordering the rare & obscure
books; that night the class full
of wanna-be poets groaned in
despair at the poet telling them
to read every book on the list
& the wherewithal to find them
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:36 AM UTC
Urgently,
I rush to the small cafe down the road,
I waited for your show for about a week,
now your finally here.
I pay my entrance fee and grab a front row seat.
It’s starting, Curtains open.
The light dim and every ones quite.
On the edge.
You step up to the microphone.
I hear music slowing began to play,
I feel a breeze as you began to speak.
Your voice’s, mentally kissing my neck,
As word play began to transform the crowd.
Transforms me.
I imagine the stage, like a field of flowers,
A bed in it’s center.
Verse after Verse, You speak of,
Your ****** Epistemology.
But I want you to be my very own lyricist
Be my proprietor and fully take ownership over me.
Every word, every phrase & verse, I hang on,listening.
Clinging to your Rhythmic Melodie.
Strum me Metaphorically,Embrace my mind.
Love me poetically. "Undress my soul".
I almost expired when these words were said, as you
experimentally held out your hand & repeated the words.
like a chant, like your beckoning for me to come to you.
I feel I’m in a monopolistic competition.
Fighting the crown for your attention.
For your affection.
Continually You speak,
Word’s played over& over .
Done and redone to the beat and base of your baritone,
While you some time whisper in that **** tenor voice of yours.
I’m lost, Gone!
Refilled with a driving need to be where you are...,
ON STAGE!
A.M.A.
Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-2008
All right reserved
Jan 28, 2010
Jan 28, 2010 at 11:55 AM UTC
1: “could you not pick your nose in front of me?”
2: “I'm not picking, I'm scratching.”
And then, utter silence.
The hourly routine of the sitters.
Warm and clear or humid and foggy,
their day always manages to be bare and cold.
With their unpleasant sets of ashy, unwashed heels, broken through the years, the numbers untold.
Watching all that is theirs.
For a benchwarmer is a proprietor of anything that keeps abet, his deepest fears.
The greatest fear, failure, being the most aggressive,
jabs and hammers on his itchy, small, frictionless small back like an overturned adhesive.
For once upon a memory so distant ago that its credibility is askew,
Were men who had dreams and hopes, to awake to the feel of the morn’ dew.
Men who, have long since settled into their nichey existence.
Men who were once the go-to for persistent consistence.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
misunderstanding flows, like beer on tap
and as we drink it down, pint after pint,
all reason is spilled onto the table,
wiped up by the ***** bar mop
that stinks of yesterdays brew
the proprietor of this establishment
stands at counter, smiling his knowing smile
that sadness in his eyes which can only come
from seeing pantomimes like this one play out before him
on every night of his long, long career
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 2:36 PM UTC
The garden meeting adjourned and moved...
Management abruptly cleared the premises,
Canceled return visits,
Speculations inconveniently disrupted,
Wonder-rousings interrupted...
We found ourselves somehow
Standing on the Great Outside.
No wistful entreatments heard He,
The Grand Proprietor,
In spite of our new knowledges,
Our now-wise forays philosophical,
Our sophisticated posturing;
He seemed without empathy
In His Garden's sudden closure,
In our ejection and dismissal.
Stumblers of unexpected freedom,
Following a shadowed river
Narrowing down into a Valley,
Darkening down into a pinprick end,
We gaze behind, ahead, behind,
To see, high sword gleaming,
The standing doorman, glowering.
Eden, receding from our view,
Serpent joins us as we walk,
"Where were we when we left our talk?"
His lowered voice renews.
We notice now, the air is chill
As an endless sun slips down
Behind a darkening hill.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
It is a slow day in a little Greek Village. The rain is beating down and the streets are deserted. Times are tough, everybody is in debt, and everybody lives on credit. On this particular day a rich German tourist is driving through the village, stops at the local hotel and lays a €100 note on the desk, telling the hotel owner he wants to inspect the rooms upstairs in order to pick one to spend the night. The owner gives him some keys and, as soon as the visitor has walked upstairs, the hotelier grabs the €100 note and runs next door to pay his debt to the butcher. The butcher takes the €100 note and runs down the street to repay his debt to the pig farmer. The pig farmer takes the €100 note and heads off to pay his bill at the supplier of feed and fuel. The guy at the Farmers' Co-op takes the €100 note and runs to pay his drinks bill at the taverna. The publican slips the money along to the local ********** drinking at the bar, who has also been facing hard times and has had to offer him "services" on credit. The ****** then rushes to the hotel and pays off her room bill to the hotel owner with the €100 note. The hotel proprietor then places the €100 note back on the counter so the rich traveller will not suspect anything. At that moment the traveller comes down the stairs, picks up the €100 note, states that the rooms are not satisfactory, pockets the money, and leaves town. No one produced anything. No one earned anything. However, the whole village is now out of debt and looking to the future with a lot more optimism. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is how the bailout package works.
Wonderful article passed on to me by an anonymous author
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
6 march 2012
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
I take pride
In jeopardizing my life
Unlike monopoly
I have one die
In life
At a time
I
The lucky spender
Received a splendid surprise
The sublime arrived
Just in time
On the night
Before destruction
Yes,
There is a bit friction
In this business
Non-fictional character
Rises in the author
I wrote
The book of the dead
And spread knowledge
On earth’s bed
Now,
I’m denied credit
For risks taken
Instead of a praise
Appraised
For my edgy ways
And found
Guilty of pleasure
I’m
In debt
With the angels
Who lent me
The soul makings
And sent me
On a mission
Which remains
Unaccomplished
In their vision
I am
Sole proprietor
In this business
I have no relations
Trust none
My inquisition
Seems superstitious
When you unravel
My unreal supposition
But suppose
For a minute
That you were in
The opposed position
And posed
With the mind of a menace
Who, sadly,
Never stepped
In the shoes of sanity
Society views your life
As a stain
On earth’s plain
Though, your pain
Seems self-sustained
You were born
Insane
Would be better off
If offered removal
But awful is often
Sought
In the eyes
Of vile beholders
The unnamed soldier
Is the truest
Of them all
Marching down
The broken road
To destiny
The
Know-it-alls
Know nothing
At all
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:57 AM UTC
Traveling on rocks
when
I came and saw you standing still in this theory of
time where space and the minute hand collide in the
explosive impact of a lovers long and dead embrace that
envelops all of the planets existence in this single instance.
and
then
I realized
that this collision
Was in the best interest of the sole proprietor of
my heart's real estate on which houses were built to
hold the familiar smells, touches, and tastes of your sweet
touch, and yet this time I have found that you
have forsaken this heart beating landscape with your fruitful lies
and promising truths.
For
the
rest of
us have come to realize that the words that leave
your mouth, while as sweet and well intention as you
may present them to the gathering droves of the gullible
ears, exit your mouth with the speed of an arrow
and the sharpness a blade that has a double edge
pointing back at the shooter with the same accuracy as
the target soul's painted bull's eye.
But I will
always
forgive
and never
forget the moments that these words provided to the broken
soul, heart, and mind of one terribly miserable beast, while
banished from his form, made up his mind to trust
one last time in the lips of his angel, and
while glass rose petals shattered from the spoken words off
her lips, the truths still glowed brightly in its broken
shatterings
proving that
these harsh
words of the cover
up, was faked
And the real voice, the real trust, the real love
covered in smothering lies to hide it's embarrassing weakness of
love, and showing that in its rock hard skin was
a soft, well spoken, mild mannered
(although as sharp as ever)
heart and soul filled with the love for the beast,
by the beast, and given back to this beast
and
then
the beast transformed, converted
into the one
and the only one
For you...me
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
the final day approaches
more quickly than any
chicken on a june bug
this is the first time
my great grandfathers aphorism
has resonated so deeply
i implore them
each and every one
ask me
ask me anything
i can help you embrace
what your unencumbered peers
treasure
what guides them to a bright future
and its absence in you
to something far more dismal
despite my rationalization
my soft realization
i hold out hope
for you, proprietor of un criadero de caballos
stable full and ahead by a nose
for you, avian veteran
star college running back in the end zone
for you, pop artist
changing galleries with colorful violence
its soon out of my hands
grains sliding through my grip
onto your desk
with which to build
a magnificent castle
or to blow back upon the earth
ask me anything
if i dont know we can search
for truth
and then Truth
im told times up
dont drag me out yet
let me finish this lin..........
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
Your face shows thee an illusion of the happiness long sought by tears
of retribution. A elusive traveller of contentment lost. That prominent
illustrator of false satisfaction and materialism. Proprietor of everything
yet possessor of nought.
Envied forever, pursued by the blindness of the ravenous follower. Yet
not for such trivialities as love or companionship. That one jewel that you
have always required, hunted for over a lifetime, yet never owned. Instead
they sprawl at your Midas touch.
You repulse now, exiled by your own commitment to fortune and
eminence. Words of greed and fortune once uttered became truth, your
own prayers answered and for this you now recoil. Ashamed at your own
self-indulgence and gluttony.
You have seen love, felt its breath. Wondered at its divine beauty, yet only
through imagination and dreams can you ever lay your hands upon it. Only
through delusion do you experience the exquisiteness of touch that lover
and love maker shall ever feel.
You have endeavored to grasp its finery, strived to gain such knowledge.
You have precious trophies, love laboured perfect sculptures of the
untouchable efforts you have made. Entire fortunes of love surround you,
mementos, untouchable memorials of your heart.
A lifetime as pursuer yet never as owner. You have everything yet nothing.
Your only certainty lurks around you, silently waiting for its payment, its
shadow almost upon you. It has followed you for millennia with hands only
now making grasp.
As you await your demise, wrapped in cloaks of golden flake and covered
in sheets of ingot, it appears to you. This long shadow calls to you, clad in
robes of blackened textile, awaiting its prize. So you breathe your last breath
as death exacts its toll.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
After the English fry-up at the Turkish café,
I ask to use the toilet.
It’s through the back of the kitchen where his wife
Is washing pans, out the door and down the stairs
Rusted with years of rain and peeling paintwork.
In the passage down below, between moss-grown brick,
A patch of earth. So many pots line the walls.
A few onions sprout. A maple tree. Some emerald shoots
Beneath a seed packet sign saying “Gladioli”.
It is quiet here. A place where servitude ends,
Where pause is taken
From the sound of coffee machines and clatter,
Chip-fryer sizzling and the perpetual radio’s chatter.
A spot within the city, apart from the chaos upstairs,
Where the proprietor can breathe
More than fumes and demands,
Smoke a single cigarette and contemplate
A pebble carefully placed among the hidden green
And trace the ground of being, a memory of home.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 11:01 AM UTC
I do not feel anything for anyone.
I am alone... except for my rage.
I am the sun, I am the giver of light and my home is the darkness.
I am hope...
I am redemption and my home is despair, amidst the ******
I am the seed of chaos
and I have sprouted in the heart of your concrete.
Your pillars are my prison,
but soon, very soon,
they will come crumbling down
and you will be left with no roof over your precious head.
No shelter from nature's wrath and no savior from the unknown.
My rage... My rage...
I cringe and flinch to keep it in its cage.
A futile effort,
for how can one cage a part of one's self and still be free, or even alive ?
Through my trials, I have come to understand many of the forms in which failure can manifest.
Used up and abused, my potential wanes.
Faced with my helplessness, it is not despair or surrender that beckons It is only anger that beckons
Yes, I am angry
Yes, I am hurt
and yes, I am hateful and filled with hatred.
And yes, I feel my waste.
My rage... My rage...
I cringe and flinch to keep it in its cage.
Beneath the weariness and below the darkness
a fury scorches my insides... for I have been deceived.
This is not my doing, this facade is not my work.
I do not wish to victimize myself,
but I also wish to assert that I am not the proprietor.
This sick act of ventriloquism was forced upon me
by one stronger than myself.
I am not myself and I am no one else.
I am without a form and without a voice.
My voice is that of the voiceless,
and you'll never silence the voice of the voiceless.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 1:45 AM UTC
teased
taunted
terrorized
tormented
into
mouth melting sin
hell's fire
hastens my tongue
as it becomes
a slippery slide to
depravity
fistfuls meant
for shared reverie
become resident hostages
in my domain
as sole proprietor
of this *****
chemical high
I laugh
at pale attempts
to fool me
with sweet haloed
innocence
no paltry impostor
stands a chance
only the real deal
sways
my greedy favor.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Weeks since the Day of Valentine
returned,
the gift I’d had for her was
gone.
Twenty dollars, some coins were
tokens of my affection;
or the value of French words strewn across American pulp.
Insipid or otherwise--
was it the action or result I more despised?
An attempt to carve my personality
in totem
out of trees and other people's words.
To my mind it seemed like children’s doodles
on a colored pencil bookmark
that could be
****** immediately
behind a large magnet on your fridge.
But it's lost within those passages, un-deciphered,
never—turned, regardless.
Swallowed in the palms of the bookstore’s proprietor
and regurgitated on its shelf.
My plan, it seemed to be all along;
as in my first dumb year.
First grade, with little since I've learned
from pop-music, plush monkeys in middle school;
vapid loneliness I glean from
years that have been the same.
Young acquaintances have ricocheted,
as phone calls often do;
All imitate the laughing sun,
renounce
the bitter moon.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 9:50 PM UTC