"pulverizing" poems
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
.simone biles (the gymnast)...
miles davis (the trumpet guy)...
must be black privilege;
wasn't there a movie...
starring
woody harrelson
and wesley snipes?
you sure?
i thought it was
called: white men can't jump...
sure as **** ****** can
sing church gospel!
how's that for
privilege?
if you're going to
culturally box, and repeatedly
punch below the belt...
you're quiet likely going
to get a reaction...
i have an acne wart growing
on my *** the size
of a cauliflower,
it's itchy my brain,
it's differentiating between
agitate and: lying back...
i guess the excess of...
look... you may have
the excess melanin...
i have lactose tolerance...
we're even?!
no?
so how come some smurf,
some European hobbit
shackle your N.B.A.
Goliath(s)?!
explain that one to me...
if these people were so
cock-unsure...
how they **** did they
tame the Zulu Apache Goliath
bodybuilders?!
what the ****
i already said, and it was proven...
IQ...
i don't like it...
but i'm pretty sure that
the whites **** more people
in terrorist attacks than...
camel-jockeys...
it took 3 or over three...
to perform the Bataclan Massacre...
three... the third of the IQ
that required a Breivik...
130 in France...
dissociated among 3 attackers
that gorged on testicles after the spree...
fun, fun fun fun...
like: you're trying to say that without
irony...
and how many in Norway?
77...
i only look at the IQ of killers...
so... what's the ratio?
77 / 1
130 / 3 = 43...
like i said... low IQ...
you really want your little
racial insurrection?
you'll have it, don't worry..
i'll just the narrative...
must be black privy...
if you can mash up a jazz compos.,
right?
crackers read from
a prepared script...
you ******* just, "improvise"...
rapping contra talking...
**** come to think of it...
******* boys took it too far from
your Oreos...
like... too much drums...
not enough wind, or strings...
too much drumming...
pulverizing the ears
with drum & bass and what not...
if i wasn't deaf prior,
i'm deaf by now;
******* boy to Oreo woo-oo-oops
boy;
same **** different cover.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
Can peanuts breathe within their shell?
When they’re eaten, might they go to hell?
Or are they, truly, lifeless nuts
No sadness, madness, or stagnant ruts
Perhaps the peanut has a king
A mighty ruler that makes the law
Or perhaps the peanut has a queen
A tender mother without flaw
Who knows, the peanut could be grand
With magical tales of Peanut land
Castles, Wizards and Warrior hunts
Pursuing their foes, Macadamia Nuts!
Galloping upon their steeds
Peanut’s charge! Peanuts Breathe!
Screams so loud the birds doth fall
Pulverizing the enemy’s wall
Now the Peanuts have an “in”
They focus their gaze upon the ****
Hoarding together & funneling thru
Macadamia nuts receiving a chill
Piercing shells for 3 long days
Injured Peanuts in gruesome ways
Mournful moans of agony
Numbers declined, so tragically
Is this the end of Peanut land?
Why couldn’t the Peanut still be grand?
“Get up I say and finish your quest!”
The Peanuts did and fought their best
Above the smoke, white flags flew
The Peanuts emerged victorious!
Striding thru familiar front gates
Returning home, so glorious!
Perhaps, in fact, this story is true
That Peanuts breathe like me and you
But one might wonder of Peanut land…
How Peanuts ride with no hands
And if you truly wish to know
How Peanuts talk and Peanuts grow
Open your ears and do come hither
“Duh! The Peanuts have a Wizard!”
Oh, the tales and jokes they tell
One day, they’ll be on TV
Perhaps in films known by all
Like, “Harry Peanut,” aired by BBC
Or, maybe they are just meant for our bars
And smashed and spread upon your bread…
But next time you eat this salt sprinkled treat,
Ponder, “am I sure this Peanut is dead?”
- BPW
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Up went the roar of the crowd,
Ascending, volumes above, beyond
The everyday murmur of pestering silence.
A futile struggle to withstand its force,
Like a vast wave, rogue and raging,
Slamming nature, a slap in the face of feebleness,
This crowd roars…
Not anger, not anguish, or grief,
But a prideful scream of declaration;
The masses make it known, and known again,
Fists raised, pulverizing the air to a beat
Of human design, of togetherness, of solidarity
In the fight for those like us, a howl,
This crowd roars…
Stampeding feet berate the beaten earth,
Invigorated legs supporting pounding hearts,
To a beat, rolling with the flow,
Energy infusing the soul, encased in flesh, bone, and blood;
Marching onward, forward, processional strides
Declaring and making it known with battle cries,
This crowd roars…
Shouts of proclamation echo the strident resistance
With thunder, earth-quaking, walls crumbling, chains shattering
With thunder, dancing against the discordant system;
Proud warriors raising flags of protest
Amidst the roar, roister, and riots, rising reactionaries
Refusing submission, declining resignation,
This crowd roars…
Bounded together, by blood, by common cause,
Mingling masses of forgotten arise with a vocal
Outcry, intense, pulsing from the core (of us)
Like an infestation, infuriated, a torrent swarm (of us)
Flowing upwards, eroding all obstructions.
Declare, proclaim, announce, request, demand,
This crowd roars…
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
Here we are again, in the deathmask of the city spinning.
The circumcised sea with its crocodiles and scars.
Never is the onrush of blood so violent the falsehoods
of the sky that drip neon on our heads
from desiccated clouds so true
This is the wild:
To the clusterfucked and cloistered swimming
in their bowls of soup and the scuttled
shells synchronous in their bass pulse beeping
to the blackhats who don’t believe
their messiah will ever come because they hear
the trump of doom every second of every day
yet they still stomp in their flatbeds for joy
and the prismatic dead who drag themselves from
their gurneys to march through the alleys
like tuskless elephants shoving their fingers
into the sun’s fumarole determined
to disintegrate into a mist of Krylon and copper
where we carry our concrete world slung
over our shoulders and the ravenous
moon in its ellipse above beached night heaving,
eyes curling in their sockets like gunsmoke smoldering
hearts humming like taut snares beheaded fish
in front of us, beheaded bodies behind us
I drag mine along by the hair.
To the children and the panhandlers who greet
the lion like hello kitty
and the skittish magnetic few in their
lightning-spaded furrows
on the ecliptic chained but leaping ever farther
and higher like the wrecking ***** pendulum
and all the naked lost milling among the mummified
tenements, waving Geiger counters before them
as they wander the sweaty street holding their heads
high as they grind flesh against flesh
pulverizing themselves into rubble
measuring the toll of time by destruction
drinking in mercury and hard water and
shrapnel and gamma and fire and gold
to them I say:
turn your hourglass on its side turn
your hourglasses on their sides
then acknowledge me so I can die in peace.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:35 PM UTC
Not only do I look at the cup as half empty
It contains poison
Lost my positive outlook a long time ago
Humor hides my broken feelings
Having breakdown inside though
Full of darkness dampening my mood
No light to cancel it out
On the verge of hyperventilation
Tears fall of sorrow and doubt
I am hollow
Fighting restless itch
Tried pulverizing negativity
No matter which weapons I arm myself with
Is too abundant to expel from my body
My voice quiet and unsure
Words are stronger than stone
I am told I should look on the bright side of things
Stormy weather is all I've ever known
Heard silence when needing comfort
Snowed when I longed for the warmth of the sun
Witnessed those I care about
Walk out door one by one
Wasted hours weeping in vain
Knowing tears would not change the past
I was foolish enough to get my hopes up
Despite the fact good things rarely last
I lost optimism the older I grew
Cannot find silver linings anymore
The partially filled glass knocked off the table
It's completely empty on the floor
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 10:22 AM UTC
Way past delusional,
I drove, forced down
into ********** by noon,
almost ass-raped by that suppressing sun-God.
And I saw something
confusing, but all to truthful.
A Boeng was coming in for a safe-landing,
strafing the sky,
when a Raven dropped from dim heaven
and got ****** into the turbines.
Crimson-mist, across the sky,
and my car as black as a feather.
I rumbled down this carbon-dioxide tunnel,
crying over love, heartbreak,
too drunk to be alive and
still trying to live,
and you know what,
I have nothing
and I wished that somebody
would hit me.
I don't know
if I'm gonna make it back. I need to be more tipsy
than just this.
There's a girl
gonna be in my bed tonight,
who's boyfriend used to strangle her
something crazy
when they'd fight.
GOD,
I could die in her
red-black hair with its pulverizing smell.
I wish I could offer her something more
at four in the morning, when she cries
and I just grab her close--
never knowing a thing
about anything.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!
Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.
Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.
Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.
Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.
Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
There's an apartment filled with drugs
Somewhere in the past
Where I'd roll around on my rug
With a body of little mass
I was malnourished
And felt like a tourist
I protected embarrassing ****** desires
And felt like I couldn't speak
I thought I'd stay silent until I retired
But the pressure got too deep
I was afraid of what they think
And the Kool-Aid they drink
I made mistakes
And tried to act straight
I felt fake
Which engendered hate
My friends stopped seeing me
After I stopped being me
When everything got too cold
I reached out for somewhere to hold
And grasped a syringe
To erase my cringe
I didn't sleep on a pallet
Or get beat by a mallet
My parents loved me
Isn't that lovely?
I felt pain all the same
I felt like I had fame
And everybody was watching
And grenade launching
I tried to foolishly avoid it
Which proved to be ineffective
I thought drugs might destroy it
Which led to countless injections
I've seen interesting things
Like wives selling rings
To be drug dealer bling
And the constant scheming
Of the get-rich-quick dreaming
These events become boring
After you see girls *******
And homeless people looting up
And pregnant women shooting up
And pulverizing police pulling up
The difference becomes starker
Once things get even darker
My life had no worth
Back and forth
Between rehab and relapse
So much time had elapsed
Life became about learning how one thing leads to another
Like a caring mother who gives birth to two brothers
One is of use to society
For he has proper propriety
The other is a poet
But doesn't know it
He can carve out a peaceful existence
That can be his righteous resistance
He needs to be nurtured
By someone he collides with
Somewhere in the future
At a location to be decided
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
a swollen finger rising to the occasion
rising to the size of a grape, purple
bloated like a stuffed pocket or pregnant chicken
green oozing out like the slime i got from the museum and the smell of rubber and plastic following me in my sleep
a ghost by the window slipping into my thumb and biting pain
the numb pressure of muscle tissue ripping
the phantom claws out and shouts that women are debris
swamps with lost metal buried at the bottom if you dig long enough the days become one and their hair consumes you whole
i argue with the shadow, threaten that this bruise will burst and blood with meet alcohol, an antibiotic fever dream
it stares at me defiant, like a giant pulverizing a village
my fingers wrestle and before the abscess can pop
the fingerprints unravel until i am nothing but thread
a coil at the bottom of the floor
a dress to be sewn in a bedroom
the shadow stand up and fits her bones into the fibers, a bride in white
the thumb hurts no more
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
Ihinabi ko sa bukana ng payong ang ulan.
This is to believe that sheltering may not always be, or simply perhaps an undertaking of weakness. A radical strangeness aspires to be bold. I may not be able to transcend its nakedness.
.
This is to deny the common verity that in the communal of water, shade fails a transliteration. We cannot be forever in hiding. Our smallness reveals our flowers. Our unmentioned stirrings. (A spire of technicolor through the lens of apertures. It starts to rain in Pasay.)
.
I see children swift-bodied in the streets. I hear the sublime song of a defunct tractor. Once in its vitality, Earth was its derelict. How did it come to be that when I peer into the openness, light slouches into form, conjuring an image: your face, hiding amongst the crowd?
.
This is to recognize the potential of dwindles. Its vertigo that it tries to protect. Its height that it tries to conquer. Its fall that it tries to eschew. What if bones are just homes to tiny little currents and that the way our body assumes the stance of jackknife, simply a foreboding?
.
Itinabi ko sa sukal ng araw ang payong.
This is to perceive that all light lifts away from the dark, my heart always falling into its hands. Morning opens your face like delicate streets, pulverizing fog into chamomile. Silence is endemic. *Makati *buoys overseer reconnaissance of obvious beatings. Revealing a long line of ligatures -- umbilicus of wires. Serenades of futility. Our useless meanderings.
.
The depth of Sunlight finally turns primeval stone. That is our defeat -- all our darkness put to trial. I am tense with the finality: she will become parasol and I, the weather past moonlight waxing.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
I used to be that girl
Had a roof over my head,
but not sheltered
Prison was my abode
Tied down by a ring on my finger And a piece of paper
Signed away my liberty
Sealed it with a kiss
I guess not everyone
Who kisses you loves you Remember Judas Iscariot?
His kiss marked the fountain-head Of Jesus' tribulation
As your kiss marked mine
My smile was beatific
When all around me was pulverizing to dust
I counterfeited contentment Comforted myself with false hope
That things would change
Yet getting worse and worse by the day
Reposing with the adversary Night after night
Fights, arguments and misunderstandings
Were a daily norm
Time is yet to heal
What immeasurable, intense Torture has done to my heart
A tattered and marred spirit
How can time mend
Feelings of loneliness and betrayal, battered and molested
Is there an end
To this barbaric nature
Hard indeed it is to accept
When the one who's supposed to love
Becomes your greatest nightmare I was there
Walked in these shoes
Shed the same tears
Learnt the hard way,
That I have to stand and fight Fight for my freedom
And the independence of my children
I found the victor in me
And not the victim I refused to be another
Statistic of domestic violence
I drew strength from within
And walked away.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:44 AM UTC
“Abate agonizing, when the grieving troposphere reaping,
As it navigates a shift as the pulverizing leaflets,
As this tender moment of nature steals upon me my deep, emotions as we drift from the Archipelago,
As the steep tall rocks swerve towards the edge of the, precipices we navigate towards our archipelago refuge,
As my heart inflection my heart beats vivaciously, through my entire body,
Conscious only of you I belong to you there is really,
A way of expressing that is not impregnable enough,
All that my soul pines to express at this instant,
Is included in the one word avidity,
A total contradiction of life if I were with those,
I loved I would only wish to be in obscure distance,
Now as I am far away all I do is wish for one more, day surrounded by those I love that home could be,
Odyssey bound for the homeland on the briny deep afar that father and husband's longing, as it seems that,
Gaviiform seabird bellows with tumultuous placidity,
Sleep the blossoms of a future flower,
You have, by your tenderness and worth twisted yourself more artfully round my heart, then I supposed possible on this my refuge,
Archipelago Refuge”
By Andrew Guzaldo July 17, 2022 © #211
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 2:05 PM UTC
Swift and exact
Words so glib
Your blade runs right between my ribs.
Blooded strike
Like lightning arc
You pull the blade and stick my heart.
Agonizing
Pulverizing
You dropped me to my knees.
Eviscerate
Eradicate
Bleed me over my unheard pleas.
Waiting wastes
time on hand
You can't afford to stop or plan.
I read in my mind
Racing are my thoughts.
Am I to finally say goodbye?
For surely, it appears
I have yet again
Lost.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
There's a monster
in my book bag,
stomach growling
and eyes alert.
It grows pleased
with each hour that
ticks by,
running away with
the delicious taste
of wasted time.
It feeds on my time,
consuming my entire
night, my life,
taking up all aspects of my being.
To take a pen
to its heart
would be more effective than
the sword,
but altogether
more challenging.
Its vanquish happens
in intermittent streams,
bursts of valiance and
productivity, then
the silent tapping of
impatient feet
in armor made of
vain and thoughtless dreams.
We create our monsters,
in essence,
our lives not quite
challenging enough
with a literal foe to defeat.
We shape our monsters,
give them life
and soul in structure
with new patterns to always confuse ourselves.
We are our own monsters
in the classes we cram,
the responsibilities we pile,
the layers of duties
pulverizing air to thin sheets.
It's hard to breath,
hard to think,
over the growling from
our tapping feet,
our chattery fingers,
our smacking lips,
those wandering eyes.
It's hard to plan
and hard to realize
the ultimate goal
with a wandering brain that,
fearing the eventual,
allows the book bag
to remain closed
for another hour.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
Tell me your darkest secrets;
I promise that I will keep
Whisper me all your unspoken words;
Let me break the silence where your heart silently weep
Surrender me a smile just to know that you're okay;
Even if it means the last time of faking, I am here to stay
Let me into your world, painting colors to your void memories;
And never again feel misery, lets turn your mind into a sanctuary
Deeply breathing together we held hands purifying our soul;
A prayer, we meditate disposing negativity.. A bad aura to let go
A moment of silence, shaking the person once we was;
Let them all troubles crumble, pulverizing sorrow to dust
Expanded consciousness makes us grow stronger and push further;
The path to serenity, a peace of mind where all the letdowns will never be remembered
Yet...Yes it's a scar that always remain, a part of growth and a sign of divine intervention;
We may take wounds but will never fall...Between rise and fall there is always a contradiction
So fall forward to a better man;
Don't give up as much as you can
The least you worries, the least you grow;
What I mean was do something about instead it just undermine the sorrow...
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
Intrigued about cremation,
I sought GOOGLE to assuage curiosity
significant questions answered
clicking the following website
https://www.funeralwise.com/plan/
cremation/cremation-process/
though summarizing article
some oven death defying act,
yet summarization satisfactorily completed,
thus herewith briefly describes
kickstarting, mystifying, pulverizing...
tantalizing, yielding, enterprising, lasting,
yelping, holding, surviving dearly departed
1. deceased identified
2. official cremation authorized
affiliated with deceased
3. lifeless body prepared
4. medical devices removed
5. jewelry recovered
6. corpse secured
into burnable cremation receptacle
7. encased entity transferred
to retort i.e. cremation chamber
8. temperature range adjusted
between 1400 degrees -
1800 degrees Fahrenheit
9. 1.5 - 2 hours elapsed
10. magnet applied
residual metal removed
11. remains ground into ashes
12. once process completed
remains secured within urn
13. family representative entrusted
with ashes.
Burnt offerings distributed
ideally according to stated
wishes of beloved,
whose remembrance sustained
as tears expended
necessary to mourn
eventually sorrow lessened,
photographs visited
after crushing grief decreased.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
because no one knew its name
a flower was given to me as a challenge,
so ugly like it belonged in a Barbie doll's hair
or a as a gift for a priest, it deserved to be smashed against a warship
or stuck in a coca-cola bottle;
it had petals that didn't coat the soul
it smelled of an office and didn't have a name;
when evening arrived everyone wanted to leave without knowing it,
I stopped to look at it and recalled the rebelliousness of Pizarnik
but I became bored before pulverizing my eyes
and for that reason I simply called it :
Cataplum
and without wanting to I ended the world.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
Waking up into the world
Foul words burn holes in my ears
Truths so raw they rot my young flesh
The instant they leave your lips
Kisses of death and decay
A power play that never ends
My personal hells undying fire
Pulverizing my mortal soul
Crazed thoughts meander in my head
I make my own meals
Milk and crunchy glass shards
Topped with freshly ground chillies
What a tantalizing trinity
The perfect homemade breakfast
To accompany our charming little pad
Savour our eclectic interior
Forget the artfully bloodied rooms
Someone's stiffened liver in our dining
Torn muscles stashed in a corner
A punctured heart in the kitchen sink
Some ground up bones in pepper shakers
Fractured ribs on my study desk
The brain sitting on the couch
Our latest wallpaper from centuries ago
News of our deaths on the headlines
Your acidic kindness
A raptured spleen in your bed
I belief that belongs to me
I'd give anything for your brutal love
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
The sadness creeps beneath my skin.
Shards of glass in my veins.
The unending grey seeps in through my pores.
Consuming me slowly.
A shrill sound with no reprieve.
The shouting behind my eyes.
My psyche tears like the fiber of meat.
Ripping ragged edges.
Deterioration.
Memories like fabric.
Ripples like silk.
Unlocking sealed vaults.
Excavating the contents.
A landslide.
Immense pain.
Like a fork against your molars.
A pinging sensation.
A jolt to wake you in the night.
Theres no reprieve from the ache.
The feeling of being crushed.
A rubber band around your ribs.
Your bones beg.
Crack.
Bone marrow replaced with sadness.
Too much to contain.
Pressure against the confines bone.
Snapping in two at any second.
Any bit of intelligence has been ruined.
I'm strung out in my sadness.
All thoughts are electric current.
Unharnessed.
An itchy soul.
Yearning for space.
Desperate.
Waiting for the skin to split.
Fire beginning in your fingers.
Flames licking your lungs.
The underside of your muscles burn.
Swallowed whole.
Pressure against my skull.
Fluid and mass.
The seams may split.
Spilling out.
Boiling over.
Needing peace like water.
High noon in summer.
Your throat betraying you.
Begging to quench it's thirst.
Slamming my fists against the ground.
Pulverizing the flesh of my knuckles.
Screaming into the darkness.
Praying to the gods.
Begging for mercy.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
I don't really know
Why I find myself here.
I'm not in any particular mood-
In fact, it seems quite misconstrued-
To try to conjure up some prose
When sleep is needed clear
And I've nowhere to go
And no way to steer
And certainly an interlude
Draws ever near.
A randomness slowly but surely creeps
Into the thoughts I've compiled thus
As no filter can be founded.
And truly I'll be astounded
If by the end of these heaps
Of words you derive even a touch
Of sentiment which I wish to seep
As confusion is a must
For this nonsense to be grounded
And two cents made of this stuff.
My thoughts are all smashed
By mortar and pestle
Until all meaning is lost,
And heavy though the cost
Of this pulverizing bash
From my slumbering nestle
I think you'll get past,
My oddly shaped vessel
If dream thoughts are freely tossed
And you take on such a hassle.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
I dithered to my feet
My mind partly ridden by aberration
My eyes in pursuit of any remaining tinctures of light
My frustration disseminating its benumbing beams
Pulverizing every hope of my survival
But darkness prevailed my surroundings
Darkness-that was enthralling every limb of my body
Leaving me trammeled within this pandemonium
Perhaps my annihilation lied within this vacuity
This dark abyss from where return was merely improbable
I spent time contemplating,
Wondering, what brought me to this tenebrous threshold?
Ferreting for that egregious crime I had committed
Which made me susceptible to such castigation?
Was it my flagrancy or imperative innocence?
I thought incessantly,
But nothing could I come up with
Other than my fault of being ignorant
Ignorant on part of our flaws,
The flaws of the inhabitants of this opaque world
Then in the midst of my depression
Emerged a distant spark of blue light
A light- as distant as the sun,
A light- capable of illuminating the world
This spark flickered, blossomed and radiated
Gradually eating up the darkness
Slowly letting itself ablaze
Its heat so intense and almost emanating
I lunged towards it
But came back stumbling down
No- I thought this was not the end-
My unwavering fortitude compelled me to rise
I ran and ran, till it was in my hands
Till I rose triumphant in my pursuit of light.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
what it meant, first time, felt,
the night blacker, moon daresay zither
of birds asleep somewhere
stone whetted by air, lingual and sharp
with reticence, that obscured
thing of beauty at the edge
of forget— ah, our memory
that picks the derelict, so much is truer
in abandon: tear-shed, stifled, watching
the word dart through the carapace
pulverizing a sensible universe
tracing the line of shadow
immaculately awed.
inward gush of blood as always
and a smile feigned,
running across the turgid avenue
burning bright, the rebel,
fading out.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
Ruth was concerned. Spitfire recon photos were the problem. Not the quality but something else. The target, it was wrong. Its street plan was different. Buildings, or what were once buildings, were different. What was wrong? Ruth thought. Do what thy will be the whole of the law. Do it right or it’s a **** up! What have our boys done?
She called her superior officer over. Quietly Ruth raised her concern and he looked closely through the stereoscopic eye glass at the post bombing pic.
“Strewth! You’re right. A right **** up. They hit the wrong ****** town. It’s not Munich. This is bad.
Ruth glanced up with wide intelligent questioning eyes. She looked very pretty in her WAAF uniform, with hair tied back and young features.
“As you sow, so shall you reap,” muttered her officer. Did it matter where the enemy was hit? As long as we bombed them. Our revenge for Coventry, London and a score more. Our Lancasters were pulverizing Germany. Bomber Harris had unleashed his whirlwind, silencing the Luftwaffe’s wind with extreme violence.
An urgent investigation needed to be carried out. It was the wrong target. A new raid would be needed...
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC