"ransacked" poems
The English vice,
Some Etonian curse –
Set down in grass
And purple verse,
Lavatory bred
With ransacked blood,
Skin slapping and
With a falling thud –
Takes boys at childhood,
Wishes them away,
With promises of popper fuelled buffets,
And poisons them with
Vice and virus red,
And sees them unmarried
Giving head.
I don’t regret a single thing I am,
I’ve tried it out
And can’t abide the sham –
I’ll **** men
And make them beg for more,
I’ll scrabble for their love upon the floor,
I’ll love men
And love will love me too,
I’ll love for love’s own sake
And when I’m through
I’ll die and I’ll be thankful that your hate
Never made me beg that I was straight.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
I mainlined your love
And became hooked on the spot
You're too powerful a feeling
For just one shot
I fell into being high from every available source
When I ran out of drugs I ransacked the lives of people i'd known before
Kisses became my ******
Touching is now *******
Making love is like making ****
The process all the same
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
but have you noticed, have you noticed how all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the old raggety rocker,
The one that always tips back too far
And my heart skips a beat as I
Secretly enjoy the thrill.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the mounds of old recipes on
The counter, yellowing with age, being
Ripped from ancient editions of
House and Home magazines.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the constant pleasant aroma of
Cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin
And snickerdoodle, the presence of cookie
Jars that are quickly ransacked by us.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There is the collection of teapots on
The shelf, the daily weather forecast that
Grandpa writes out every day on the table,
The forest of palms and tiger lilies in the center.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
Time seems to stand still, and everything
Is perfect, familiar, right.
Even when the room itself doesn’t belong to
Her anymore, it will always be to me
Grandma’s kitchen.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
I read an account of a small girl today
"Crunching beneath her feet
Like a thousand stars twinkling in the faint light of Potsdamer Platz
Father holding her hand so tightly it hurt
Sick children chased over broken glass
The Jewish children's hospital ransacked
While staff beaten for tending to the unworthy sick"
You can feel the fear in her words
The darkest November
Hatered had now found a new form, a face, a sign
The ********
Men paraded and followed ******
Revered like a demi god
They worshiped an ideal.
MIEN KAMPF
It seems now implausible that one mans belief and struggle that he apportioned to a race could be bastardised into a purge of races that divided mankind and almost ended it
From that night to this there have been many acts that again raise that spectre.
Sarejavo Iraq to mention but a few.
Tonight Jews Gentiles and others will shine peaceful lights at Potsdamer Platz.
What have we learnt in 75 yrs
The world watched the **** machine grow
The world did not act
What do we now watch
Who are we now failing...
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
Come and hear the tale of a falling
This failure of a king, his story appalling
Come and hear of his last moment's calling
This man whom we once called our king.
A mad king anointed with power in mind
Crowned by desperation, crowned by the blind
A tyrannical king; No worse will you find
For this man is a servant of Hell.
He comes and he swears in God's holy name
To cater the people and lands that they tame
But it's I who knows of his little game
The political regime that he runs.
He sits on his throne and barks at his men
Demanding the whys and demanding the when
Slowly but surely he wears the string thin;
For the people may tolerate so much.
He works through the town, donning his crown
A hat that is envied by all in the town;
For the man is rich, the man is renowned!
This man whom all call their king.
Beneath him men die, but criminals don't pay
Put them to death, that's what I say!
This kings way is in no way the right way
But we the people can do naught but pray.
But good men exist, whom jail the unjust
Good men who work to earn the town's trust
And these good men speak out, shaking out the dust
And speak out against their king
The king starts to fear, his gate is now closed
And he starts to regret the options he chose
And now by good men this king is deposed
By good men this king is denied.
Now we call him a tyrant, we call him a fake
We spit on his image, his throne we forsake
We take up our arms, pitchfork and rake
And march to his door to knock.
Some killed by guards, but good men prevail
And blood rains down like late Summer hail
And in the end we hear the king wail
His death is announced the next morning.
Good men cheer and king's men glance back
Wondering what it was the mad king lacked
Though who didn't expect his castle ransacked
For was not the king of the wicked?
It matters not in the end, you will find
Good men un-knotted this terrible bind
They laugh and jest at history behind
And cast themselves to a new king.
But this ballad of history will soon be repeated
For in the halls of recurrence it is seated
This tragic comedy of rulers so heated
This tragic tale of a king.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Some days I swear my brain in burning....
Just can't ignore it, it's too distracting
& honestly quite disturbing
But the mother ****** just keeps on occurring
FUCK!!....See I can feel it now, it's returning
I don't know what the **** is going down in my brain
It's so intense & twisted, I wouldn't even begin to know how to explain....
....I suppose, maybe, it's like you're trippin' on acid while listening to Black Hole
Sun or Acid Rain
There's so much going on, it's more than I can handle, too much to contain
& this happens daily, pretty soon it'll be all sanity ****** into the drain
Now see.....there it went, just as quickly as it came
It's a complete & utter mind **** game
Just when I start to enjoy it
It tells me, JUST KIDDING, I QUIT!!!
I'm getting ******* tired of its ****
Either go away & don't return
Or ******* stay & commit
But this come & go
None sense I'm beginning to really ******* hate
I'm not interested in what you're dishing out upon your plate
Because every time I attempt to sample off it, I end up in some twisted mental
state
Locked away for not two, three or four days double that!!
YUP ******* EIGHT!!
After finally coming back to reality
& clearing up my damaged mentality
Yup, there goes a little more of my integrity
Before you know it, I'll be judged by the eyes of society
But you know what....
**** IT, it will only make better & I'll remain, still, with my sick ***
personality
So bring it on random feeling
Throw your worst at me,
You'll get 86'd like Al Kapone
I'm now in savage mode
Nothing's going to mess with me, not even your tightest hold
So tell me.... "How does it feel to be shut out in the cold?"
I've figured out your evil mission & it sure as hell will be made
IMPOSSIBLE!!
Because this girl right here is simply unstoppable
So hurry up & hop back on your little tricycle
You wouldn't want to freeze up now, like a popsicle
&& that's how you win a fight without once getting physical
So here I'm left to sit alone
All I'm left with are pupils noticeably dilated
After my brain was rudely invaded
Like it was a trap house getting ransacked & raided
But I was done being mind ****** & violated
With all I had in me I fought & I can proudly say I MADE IT!
So the results are in....
&& guess what bitches....I WIN!!
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
I HAVE ransacked the encyclopedias
And slid my fingers among topics and titles
Looking for you.
And the answer comes slow.
There seems to be no answer.
I shall ask the next banana peddler the who and the why of it.
Or-the iceman with his iron tongs gripping a clear cube in summer sunlight-maybe he will know.
2.2k
**** cops
and everything they don't do.
**** cops
who don't talk to peopl
like they are people,
who talk to them like witnesses
or victims.
**** cops
who put their badges down at night
and listen to their friends tell black jokes
and don't say a word.
(This goes for white and black cops.)
**** cops,
I've got nothing more to say,
all they've done is taken
when i've been around;
ransacked my room
and talked to me
like I'm an idiot,
**** you.
Cops don't keep ******* safe,
don't want to
and never wanted to.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 9:52 PM UTC
The ******** in making,
Enjoy the pleasures of faking.
My thoughts still fleeting,
Sheared off yet bleating.
The rake inside me awakened,
Morals yet again threatened.
The devil's awake agile and ready,
Conscience breached and unsteady.
My head remains heavy and pensive,
A ******* yet again shall live.
Ransacked of all what I had,
Forlorn with thoughts, sad.
Leaves me hollow inside and out,
Void inside wishes to scream and shout.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Please understand
This is out of my control
Slipping though my fingers like the wholeness I had before he ransacked my temple
and shattered my only jewel.
Nauseating shame
Embarrassment at the failure to hide such weakness
Whilst knowing none of this is a reflection of my lack of strength
A triumphant survivor, a warrior, stripped to a feeble state...
Victim.
Not again.
Lacking empowerment and support, I shrivel
Violently collapsing upon myself.
Self destruction.
That glow in my eyes resembles a star
Imploding
Until my blank stare into the expanse of the past ricochets back the flashback
With more hold on the light in me than a black hole could ever achieve.
I'd rather fake lightness
Than feel the weight I bear compress you too.
This is my burden
I never want it to be yours,
But need so desperately
For you to feel it too.
Please understand
I cannot carry this on my own
Knowing this panic is irrational according to the present setting
Yet is so real to me otherwise.
Still broken, I flinch at anything resembling a threat
Even if yesterday it was neutral
Or even pleasant.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
Do Not Tell Me “everything will be okay”
I will not feel relief
my inside’s stress tsunamis don’t have an off button
they will catastrophically annihilate anything I believe to be
okay
I wish they didn’t
Oh fairy godmother, Oh yahweh, god, ************ jesus himself
grant me wishes, grant the whole ******* world wishes
because we’re tired
I can’t even imagine the fuel debt of starving african children
or stockholders losing what they haven’t bought yet
when I, a financially privileged and well fed college student
can’t get through 3 hours without trying to prevent
another stress tsunami
Do not tell me everything will be okay
It is not what i want to hear
I want to hear bullets in my head
girls, screaming at the sight of my right arm
gushing niagra falls of blood
I want god to **** my ****
I hope every therapist and so called good friend
can understand these words when i say
Depression will never be okay
Feeling hundred year old brick buildings
crushing upon my chest, my brain
ransacked by rubble
and my heart, an empty sack
will never be okay
I am burnt to a crisp
I am too old for this ****
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
Friends,
Think not of terror in the night
Of wayward wandering careless fright.
Think not of hatred in the morn,
Of owness lost and past left scorn.
Think not of guilts
Dead to the wind,
Think not of ills
You've beaten still.
Think not of the spectres of your mind,
Of days destroyed, of thought decline.
Think not of angels
Escort the dead.
Think not of challenges, haunt ahead.
Think not of blanket
Bleaching sorrow.
Think not of heartache soared tomorrow.
Think not of panic in the dark,
Of where your friends and foes reside,
Of what they say or what they mind,
Or whether they think you cruel or kind.
Think instead,
Of all you are.
Of where you've come from,
Crawled this far.
Think of your talents,
Of your shine,
Think of the world in terms of rhyme.
Think not of fear, of mindless dread, of panic ransacked
Quaking head.
Think all too clear of love itself.
Of simple life in raging health.
Never question what you are,
But freely count the fading scars.
Question malice, idle, stubborn, judging hearts,
Question tired cynics,
Mouthing barbs to better grow into themselves,
Question injustice, and condemn to swell
All those who'd dare
To make you shrink into a lesser, hardened shell.
Never wind your steps back over tread,
Already stepped.
Hold firm and fast
White knuckle raging burning grasp
Your fingers to the rail
And grimace menace
To all that failed
To break you.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl
she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language
the regression to Lilith
**** *********
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world
***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good
give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy
right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed
a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails
a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish
death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******
steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality
are you gonna eat that?
pass the ***
collapses time
lust
custodian
of human archeology
**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******** and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you
a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in **** **** farm country
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
The smallest coffins are the heaviest!
The smallest coffins are the heaviest!
No one wears stained clothes
No person likes stained walls
We make sure that they are cleaned
We make sure it is all stainless
But on a colourless Tuesday
Terrorists spilled red all over a school
They ransacked the classrooms
They set a teacher on fire
They shot aimlessly at tiny hearts and hands
They murdered their future
They banged bullets through budding brains
And all that was left were stains.
Terrorists stained crisply ironed uniforms
They spilled blood in corridors once filled with colourful paintings
They blemished the thoughts of little souls
They damaged the hearts of parents young and old.
Terrorists persist in staining their hands
They exult in staining their nation
They stain the meaning of Islam
They stain the words of Allah in the holy Quran
The redness of young blood will haunt them
These red pigments will soak them into hell
These blotches won’t be disregarded
These stains will sustain till eternity!
-Zainab Attari
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Tonight, I saw you at the corner of the road,
standing, with falling shoulders and lowered head,
not lonely, rather alone with yourself,
the best company I would say,
even if it appears contrary to you at the moment
Though, your shoulders are falling,
they are gracefully carrying the excruciating pain of your heart,
those stiff muscles are holding you straight,
yes, your head is lowered down,
yet, what a marvelous posture of your body
I adore you,
your presence, existence is a source of emulation for many,
they are admiring their standing woman-man, their stoikiy muzhik,
as standing their itself is an act of courage,
that you are holding on
I don’t know what ransacked you,
must have been terrible,
but not strong enough to break your resilience,
the terseness of your being,
I adore you
Tonight, when you go back home,
don’t just reach and lay on the couch,
go in front of that mirror,
the one that you have not seen for long
let your intimate self undress you,
praise your beautiful body,
doesn’t matter whether it has gained weight or lost,
if gained, admire those layers of new flesh,
they are eager to burn themselves up for you, just for you,
if lost, praise those beautiful bones,
which are highlighting the flow of universe inside the canvas of your body,
see yourself, raise your head,
give respect to your resilient shoulders,
to your eyes which drained themselves dry to make you feel better,
see the grace and light they have when they daringly carry your vulnerability with style,
they deserve a smile,
while smiling, respect your mind, you awareness,
which is not acting as your master anymore,
when was the last time you caressed your
beautiful eyes, hair, face,
when was the last time you caressed your
breast, chest, all below,
Don’t sleep tonight,
your cupboard is waiting for your touch,
you have kept on contacting them,
but for tonight, for one last moment,
one last act of courage,
that gods themselves are not expecting from you,
shut their mouth,
defeat death, for tonight,
Touch
touch your books, shoes, clothes, diary, pen,
that beautiful lamp in the corner,
your bed that has not been made up,
touch your work, they long for your love,
and they, all of them have waited for this very moment,
just one last deed,
affirmatively whisper…
Aditya
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 11:37 PM UTC
I hear the deserts of the singing,
Calling me,
Wandering forth tears of a Spirit.
For many walks I lessen my pride,
Wondering,
Is it You calling me to heareth?
Mad before, I have ransacked some woods,
Treasures lost…
Finally awoken to find worth.
I’m gonna give them all what they want,
Never found…
For them to realize this is all Earth.
Let them cry, love, heal - all to find way…
Here - I am a dead man anyway…
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 6:03 PM UTC
not a place we can go to have my grandmother tell you again how my uncle was born with a tooth.
where slavery just a star watched and watching and **** just a rainbow bent to its work.
where babies are shaken like hollow gifts and we want people and the emptiness of people put to death.
where grey flutes billow.
where milk is in our blood and ghost letting.
where hope is ugly but don’t tell it.
where fathers disappear into the dashboards of looted trucks taking with them their once employed hands and taking with them the heat of those hands.
where disappear is not a word we lightly loft.
where envy is the work of nearby grass.
where a man moves over a woman so that she is equal and equally ransacked
of travel.
where in a field this far away one can do finders keepers to a body scraped at by others and poked.
where a pill is like a mouth but smaller. but wants a bottle. and roots at the tip of your tongue.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
We blame our fathers
We call them traitors
We wish they had fought
We analyze and criticize!
But; while we slept…
Our villages were attacked
Our houses were ransacked
Our lives… shattered!
Under our noses
Our heroes fell,
Like petals of roses.
While we made merry…
Our women were *****
Our girls were enslaved
Our maidens… depraved!
Under our watch
Our cattle were looted
Our farms were torched.
While we fraternized…
Our children were slaughtered
Our youths were murdered
Our species… endangered!
How long shall we segregate?
While they usurp our heritage.
How long, till our place in history
Becomes a “Once upon…” story?
© Raphael Uzor
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC
I feel safer somewhere cold and dark
Like my lonely, ransacked heart
At times it has played the part
Tucked behind a fleshy rampart
Casting a stark silhouette,
Becoming somewhat of a trademark
Can't remember when it lost it's spark
It had to have been sometime, way back,
Before the halfway mark
The memory gets a bit hazy,
Especially when trying to recall the start
What I get to deal with now is,
Just how quickly it all fell apart
©2024
Mar 23, 2024
Mar 23, 2024 at 8:50 PM UTC
My calling patterns are rather dull.
I’m a sixty year old man.
I get phone calls infrequently
almost never from Sudan.
Then one day I received a call
From some fellow called Abdul.
I thought it was a prank at first,
from students at my school.
He talked of pressure cookers
and praised his foreign god.
I said “it’s a wrong number, Bub.”
And I thought “that was odd!”
That didn’t stop him calling here
Oh, once or twice a week.
I explained I’m not the party
To whom he wished to speak.
(It seems my number was one digit
off from a certain Chechen geek).
After Tax day it got interesting-
all this clicking on my phone.
One time my placed was ransacked
while I was not at home.
Eric Holder, if you’re listening,
I am not the Droid you seek.
It seems the fourth amendment
Must be null and void this week...
I might be your perfect villain:
White, Catholic, and a man.
I know if I made videos
I’d be rotting in the “can”
I knew nothing about the plot,
I’m innocent, you see.
My knowledge, like the President’s
comes strictly from T.V.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
each nun my mother sees is shorter than the one after it. this too shall pass? she remains nonverbal. I try to include my son. my depression is a tractor beam that attracts newborns. my thoughts are a thought below the whimsical race. I take photos of escalators paralyzed by three dimensions. I give them as gifts to my father lost at land and sitting on steps to hear the silence in his head. a toy pup expires with a yip in a ransacked store. you are made melancholy not by the pup but by its fallen battery pack belly. I say to a pockmark what I say to immortality.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Divorce is the sign of knowledge is out times. wcw
Empty chair. Sun frowning through blinds on lifeless rooms.
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Singing now to only one. A history of the void. Hollow words.
Know the past. You were there. In everything done.
Boxed up kid's toys. Forgotten gifts. Solitary thoughts.
Echoes of children's voices. Fading to grown up.
No one knows what lurks down the road. Dead end.
Memories of the missing. One way conversations. Unsung songs.
Days without direction. Nights of nothing. Empty bed blues.
Ransacked nostalgia. Random recollections. Loneliness.
*You and I we're like water to the sea,
What can one without the other be.*
~mce
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC