"quashed" poems
(a satirical pop at the Illuminati)
It's time to slay fatted consumer cows
It's time to fumigate the Great Unwashed;
To sow mutation's seeds behind the ploughs
To see the dullard's dreams forever quashed.
How movingly they pray not to be harmed!
How doggedly they work to make a wage!
How prettily they line up to be farmed,
Yet, how they long to be at centre stage!
The Useless Eaters eat their pizzas deep,
Their double fries and creamy mayonnaise;
Produce only some methane while asleep,
And fodder for landfill, throughout their days.
It's time for the superiors to win;
Unleash the virus, let the cull begin.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
I’m a graced angel in flight;
Strawberry blonde hair cascading down my back.
I’m being devoured by the Parisian night.
Racing past the library a thief in sight,
Henry à la Pensée envelope chemise, André Perugia shoes.
I’m a graced angel in flight.
My heart kidnapped, I’ve lost the fight.
Black streaks of mascara running down my cheek,
I’m being devoured by the Parisian night.
Happiness quashed, dreaming of the afterlife-
Now the games are about to begin!
I’m a graced angel in flight.
I’m looking up at the moon shining so bright,
Sedated by drink I’m waiting it out.
I’m being devoured by the Parisian night.
With dancing feet I’m kicking off the last shoe
And stumbling to the edge, I fall.
I’m a graced angel in flight.
I’m being devoured by the Parisian night.
© Sia Jane
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
Ignorance quashed the feline,
Rashness foiled the canine,
Cowardice cost the equine,
Greed consumes each swine,
Slothfulness traps the bovine,
But me? I'm doin' just fine!
Jun 20, 2024
Jun 20, 2024 at 4:07 PM UTC
Seldom though eventually
His words will wash away
The human mind's a yawning sieve
That siphons thoughts away
For all we are is flesh and blood
And dust, in all due time
His face embedded in my thoughts
Will someday leave my mind.
Each grain of sand; each thought of him
Will slither down the glass
Slow and steady, one by one
Until he's in the past.
For now my mind's a youthful cache,
No wave can wear or wash
Impressions left upon my soul
Cannot be staved or quashed.
-Un-rhymed Notes-
*Every once in a while
The human mind is all it's built up to be;
A sieve, where the balm of time
slowly mends and knits
The torn edges of the chasm.
Every once in a while
It is as if the wound has healed
And the flow of muscle memory
Ripples beneath the unmarred surface*
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.
© Sia Jane
--
“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
| / / | \ | \ \ | \
/ // / | \ | \ | / |
/ / / \ \ \ | / / \
Storm is gone
and all hypes have settled down
i go straight to that one place
for that much awaited
cleansing...............and freedom
i strip myself of clothings
on the surface
and those underneath my skin...
Under the shower
i am bare
as a newborn babe.
sighing....as i surrender myself
to the trickles of water sliding
down
my
body...
I turn around once...
twice...
thrice,
to spray the wetness
all over me...
...i turn the **** gently....for more water
...close my eyes
...as countless thin drops flow out, touch my head,
i let them trace
the countours
of my face...
Mouth opens a bit
i drink in some...to quench my thirst
let go of some...and retain the rest
be overcome by the coolness of the tap water,
.....take time to reflect...to ponder...
....while wet eyes give way to sniffles
....blending with those refreshing trickles,
...........erasing muddy stains of fear
...................and dried marks of tears
................sighs, of fatigue...and regret
.............these, i most often neglect...
.....under the shower, they'd be quashed
..........i'd let them all be awash
......................save for my personal friends,
..........like grit........and good ole common sense.
As water saturates my whole being
...a few expectations and dreams
..........go down the drain
.......while others.....stay
........and dwell within.
Some feelings just cannot hide
...some, refuse to surface, and stay buried deep inside.
Sally
Copyright October 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC
Where were you,
When the world was calling you,
When Love & honesty was only with few.
When Poverty & Hunger was at its high,
When exploitation & injustice was very easy buy.
When Poverty rips through their veins,
When child in ragged clothes, with tired eye, begs for few beans.
When their bellies ****** is not by choice,
When destitute mother cries as her hungry child dies.
When women were exploited, with no one to tame,
When humanity was cringing with shame.
When even little girls were not spared by lust eyes,
When she was left with bruised body, with her dreams crushed & with groaning voice.
When baneful herbs of hatred were spreading viciously,
When aroma of love & tolerance was crushed blatantly.
When moral outlines were quashed,
When values were scotched.
At least now,
Stop Just crying foul & grumbling,
Stop feeling sorry & bleating.
Time has come to move on,
Get off the couch & plan for a new dawn.
Lead the change with your head high,
March ahead, your limit is sky.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
red wine beads at my brow
I wait to wince
poppies dance out in the yard
in the little warmth from seasons since
her feet trail away
the broken magnum at mine
head, heat, blaring haze
scythes at the atlas of my spine
scorn and disgrace
raw and insipid
the sun turns its face
lends whatever light to the wicked
she said she'd put the fear of god in me
but god is not what I fear
not what oppresses my feet
nor the ache of my best years
he does not hang from her tongue
like the prize of her spiced ***
any vestige of will; any spirit, any trace
for any iota of refrain
quashed, quelled
concealed and contained
another fickle whine
another fleeting wish
any mistake I've made is mine
and hers are carried on the wind
she speaks like the end;
the war, and then what's won
no more sour a tend
than to the wounds of what's been done
the world armed to defend;
her foes a heavy sword against a throng so young
infantile infantry
ripened from infancy
what a weapon are my sons
what a kindness she's coughed up
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
You didn’t just break a mirror today.
Go Ask the shards of broken dreams .
Which lie ebbing away on the marble floor ,
Painted crimson by your hands ;
And you will hear them whisper,
The susurration of the fallen .
The susurration of truth .
Heart them narrate
A tale of the vanquished .
For that is all I am ,
Vanquished .
Spent.
And Quashed .
Like the demons of desire,
Living a life of Denial,
In your hooded eyes .
You didn’t just break a mirror today,
You shattered the only abstract left in my shallow world.
You shattered my occult hope ;
An abstract alien to cynics ,
Of life , love and all that once made us celebrate our kind.
But the reviving spirit ,
For someone who has everything to lose.
You didn’t just break a mirror today .
You broke my silent mistress,
A lover who witnessed more than you ever did.
A mate who knew more than you ever will.
And yet ,
Who Never did judge .
And know these love ,
Its death will not wipe the slates of memory clean .
For the bitter wine spilt last night;
Has stained us .
But also ,
Has reminded us .
Of what we could be , but never will be.
You didn’t just break a mirror today .
Ask the pieces of your broken image,
That beg clemency from your shrine .
A Shrine of solitude you have built for yourself.
You didn’t just break a mirror today ,
You broke yourself.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Well if I sound depressed enough,
maybe I'll scrape together enough followers
to be taken seriously
when I write with
the melancholic grit
of Sylvia Plath;
and maybe then this sadness draped over my shoulders
will flow gracefully when
I walk by all the things I did for you;
and maybe this statement piece isn't so impressionable;
and I don't have to wear something plain to go with it,
because I'm tired of being told I'm 'over-the-top'
like a teddy bear peaking out of a garbage can;
and maybe I'll post this the instant
fashionable sadness falls out of style -
and then your pity would be quashed
and then your pity would be quashed
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
There’s a fire on top of the rooftops,
Bombs are falling from planes nearby,
people are scrambling for cover,
And help is M.I.A.
Debris falls all around us,
Bricks tumble, our hearts fumble.
We ask ourselves: Will we make it out alive?
We fear for our lives,
We fear for our families,
But the enemy doesn’t care.
We’re gonna need more than a prayer
To get through this hell
that is World War III.
We know there’s no time to wait,
We have to keep going,
Or we may be another target,
Another casualty
of heartbreak.
As we hear the surrounding screams,
We dare not look back,
As the enemy closes in around us
The sounds of gunshots
Bounce off the walls,
And one by one, the loved ones around us,
like dominoes, take the fall.
We dodge, we duck
For cover.
They shoot, fire,
And another casualty
Another loved one
lost.
Our hearts beat faster and faster,
As our hopes of survival are quashed.
Adrenaline courses in our veins,
And time starts to slow down.
We begin to wonder
And ask ourselves once more:
Will we make it out of this hell?
We didn’t ask for this.
We didn’t want this war.
But here we are,
fighting just to survive.
We don’t eat, and we don’t sleep,
All we do is run away
And hope we live to see another night.
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 12:41 AM UTC
An endless stream of grey
Meandering like smoke past my door
Swallowed by the gaping maw
Constantly this ravenous creature demands more bodies to devour
As un-protesting they all go to their doom
Is that a sign of struggle?
A momentary fluttering of rebellion in their eyes
The futility of their journey
Rebellion quashed, the creature roars
Stuffed with life, it staggers on its way to gardens unknown
And in its wake
An endless stream of grey
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
And thus the sunset beckons now the night
As stars begin to glow and so reveal
That once the dark has quashed out all the light
The moon and stars display with wondrous zeal.
As man will walk in countryside by night
Polaris shining bright to light his way
Where pitch-black sky was not a unique sight
He searches for that unspoilt place today.
For mankind spread and in his wake made light
Which blurs the view of Heavenly array
While phosphorescence glares so very bright
We miss the wonders of our Milky Way.
©Joe Wilson – O for an inky-black sky…2015
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
You waded through memories
on your throne
All of us look on, smiling,
False courtiers, pretend lovers
To the hag who was queen
Your Tudor eyes crinkle
As you pretend joy
At this false homage
From this worthless court,
All bows and manic grins
shining winter twilight coldly on you
You see Death in their eyes
As once before in your sister's
When her Spanish heart
Sent yours to the Tower
But your head did not roll on its green,
As your mother's once did
For tearing Christendom in two
For daring
To think
That a woman
Could have
A voice
You stroke Queen Anne's jewels
With her fingers,
The ones she gave you
When she loved your father
Despite all it cost the world
We, the victors of the Elizabethean age
Laugh at you, Elizabeth, aged,
****** Queen
Whose lover's letters litter
The back of her tear-stained pillow
When your cold Tudor eyes finally close
And end the dynasty first founded
On a woman's vicious piety,
Know that you,
Lilibeth,
Liquid eyes
that sunk a Thousand Ships,
Tinkling laughter
that tore men asunder,
Iron fist
that quashed a myriad hopes,
will not be mourned.
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC
To family, friends and strangers-
I’ve bottle everything up inside.
Suppressed my true thoughts and feelings.
Quashed any emotion.
I couldn’t speak the words,
but I sure as hell can write them.
Maybe this will heal me.
Instead of hiding, let me rip myself open for all to see.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
Two hundred and twenty miles
That is exactly how far from my door to yours
Somewhere in between near and far
The grey space it occupies is beginning to swallow everything between us
Literally
My drive down today
I was not met by the sun and clear blue sky
Instead it rained inside and out
As I made my way down from the mountains for maybe the last time
Slowly
I was in no rush to arrive
Speed demon tendencies quashed by gloom all around me
I wallowed in silence within my mind
Occasional cars flitting past as I slow and slow and slow… and slow
Stop
If only we ended this way
With a steady dwindle obvious to all involved
Seen from miles away, days ahead
Instead of the sudden slamming of the breaks causing us to crash together
Done
Now I’m sitting here waiting
Wondering how much damage has been inflicted
Will I get my heart back in one piece?
Or has it yet again been damaged beyond repair, what’s the word?
Totaled
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
From off the pores of pitch-black skin,
Floyd's soul saps aways,
Little by Little,
One last time
One last effort
One last fruitless plea
In tinny scraps of air
Pushed up from greying lumens
Sourly yields a quashed neck coldening ,
The sore man sighs the last of life,
The man with the loathed shade met his end
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 2:16 PM UTC
Every time she sees a cactus, her heart cracks back open, bleeding hurt all over her insides. The hurt colors her vision, dulling vibrancy to a lackluster grayscale. It muffles her hearing, deadening melody to a lifeless buzz. It desensitizes her tastebuds, quashing wine to stagnant water. It numbs her skin, anesthetizing the insides of her elbows to empty hollows. But her heart is not dulled, deadened, quashed, or anesthetized. Her heart is a throbbing, fiery ache of pain, longing for the desert.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
god does not love me
i think he doesn’t even know my name,
yet i still wonder what he’d call me by once i arrive
at the gates of afterlife,
would he disregard what he wrote in the book of life,
look me in the eye
and call me by the name
my parents christened me with
instead of human number 99560000c, earth #05?
but who am i fooling;
i am but a donut flying across infinity in lightspeeds
one moment there, a moment later swallowed by the hungry monster who awaits
in the black hole
am i a snack for idle gods?
a cut of chicken running from the jaws of earth, unaware
that it is merely flopping from one bowl to another,
flour to egg to crumbs—
a breading offering for the deities
most people have come to accept that, i think
as i jump yet again into the bowl of flour
but i am not most people, as i refuse to believe
the reality that i am but a speck of dust fleeting through life,
an insignificant bug easily quashed by the stinking
foot of infinity,
that old hag.
life is temporary
too much breading does not do any good
i will soon be the trillionth dumped into that pool of hot oil
but **** if i’m not going to try scorching the tongue of a god,
and while i’m at it,
be the most delicious flying donut in the galaxy.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 4:24 PM UTC
A land fought over from antiquity,
It's fertile plains and mountains steep,
Coveted and plundered with iniquity,
It's people slaughtered as helpless sheep.
From Alexander, through Genghis Khan,
Invading hordes without respite
Killing all to the last man,
Sowing misery and plight.
They in turn spawned ruling lords,
But the circle didn't cease,
Yet more came with thrusting swords,
No nobler reason than to fleece.
Empires came then empires went,
Their legacy imprinted on its people,
A motley quilt of rich descent,
Sullen faces altered by each sequel.
So what now this time of gloom,
As darkness spreads once more,
Freedom quashed, for thought no room,
Supplanted only by misery and war.
And yet a shard of light may still exist,
Despite their new Master’s crushing hand,
If these hardy people can persist,
They may well in time reclaim their land.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 11:06 AM UTC
I want to understand human purpose ;
The doubtless impaired devotions that deviate from
‘The Human Idea’
There’s something ‘recovered’ that persists in each life
yet
in each life
it is usually
quashed habitually
These purposes are mused from off of the makings of our lives
and
when applied
can become true
unearthed work
a driven propulsion
a **** You’ or offering to the ‘Creator Idea’
a truth of an individual view
or
at least
some sort of an approximation.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC