"ransacking" poems
Howls in the night
cross the threshold of savagery
Coordinated hate
of a hundred jackboots
stomping faces in the streets
Storefronts smashed
Crushed glass crunching
under the feet of unbridled violence
Doors bashed in
Swinging sledges smash
Women and children dragged
kicking and screaming from their homes
Beaten unconscious
then beaten while unconscious
Clothes rended
flesh roughly groped
******* mashed
by laughing barbarians
with teeth made of knives
Innocence of a generation *****
in a single evening
Ransacking hands
strangle the wealth of a culture
One thousand synagogues in flames
light cast magnified in the carpet of crystals
sparkle of hellish brilliance
Ninety one lives snuffed
they were the lucky ones
Avoided the camps
where greater horrors were wrought
in the forges of torment
from the pounding of flesh
beneath hatred like hammers
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
Tidy room, tidy mind.
Logical, is it not?
We splash our life onto the canvas of our bedrooms.
Our dreams escape onto the walls as we sleep.
Our feet drag the dirt of our adventures on the floor.
Our desks are hidden under papers, pencils, a calculator, papers, a spoon, a comb, and two large hands ransacking the surface looking for a misplaced paper.
I like my room in the mess of sense I understand but maybe mom was right. I have to reorganize my room. I have to reorganize my mind
to clear the pathway between my bed and the door, so I can have a new vision and spend time looking for the right things.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
It’s the billionaire’s coup–Trump, Putin and Musk.
They’re bleeding us out, from dawn until dusk.
Consumer protections, arts, farms, forestry–
the billionaires say they’re not necessary.
From the money they save, the tax cuts will come
to the billionaires, the millionaires, their daughters and sons.
Balance the budget, so they can all have some.
So many workers deemed useless and lazy,
such as nuclear engineers–whoops! Are they crazy?
Shredding all of Congress’s appropriations
and thumbing their noses at all other nations.
Except Putin’s, because, he’s one of them--
the billionaire’s club of rich white old men,
who share dreams of ransacking the whole world, entire,
until all of it ends in storms, floods and fire.
Then off via SpaceX past the Milky Way’s limits.
No, that’s not possible. But deep down they’re dimwits.
You can fool some of us, all of the time,
You can’t fool us all, and I’ll end this rhyme:
We’ll protest, we’ll sue, we’ll go out on strikes.
And if the time comes–their heads stuck on pikes.
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 12:50 AM UTC
i'm unwinding my head
on
honey moon belly
******* carnivorous lozenges
falling in love with glazed
eye ball devils
hypnotic stare
destination
a tunnel of fiendish odysseys
blood drooling eel
vomits gush white
daddy long leg threads
in honeys wet cage
to wither
writhing spit hot
in fat muscle and bone
headless
head first
like a mindless falcon
after scattered mice
i feel her teeth tearing
syringes of ecstasy
ransacking swollen motion spirals
and ***** like bronz buckaroos
at a fancy pool party
crimson *** macabre
****** roast bon bon fire
licking her lump of desire
a rousing boogyman sermon
speaks in incinerating tongues
swallowing a hideous parfait
**** growl
girl squat
**** ****
mint julip throat
choke symphony
abducting lascivious pollinated gulps
take me in like reckless bull sap
through your red
dada warp land
pit of the brain
undulant flesh landscape
of shapeless ovule spume
mouthing night blows
Incised flagellation's
devour buffet spread maiden derelict
arched and trembling
drunk and drugged
like a buttermilk sky
groaning hysterical
in feral muck stained beds
of puce and slime ochre pigments
stunned umbra
a famished
deep veined jutting peninsula
longing for princess ***** dynasties
with vast thighs radiating inferno hearths
and rolling hill **** hieroglyphics
decipher rug pugilist lap songs
my goddess i long for your
bruised fruit
crawling like the dead of night
on pitch vanta shadows
where love becomes a savage
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
*You've left me without
the capacity to care
***** my trust and left it just
Lying there.
Racking
Ransacking
Looking for a
Reason. Any reason.
You ****** me
****** me over
****** her,
in your head.
I'm fatigued, and I'm
Jaded, and I'm
Betrayed beyond repair
And for all the king's horses...
I thought you had changed.*
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
What was meant by the shadow of night,
In the early man’s eyes what was meant by its darkness,
Impending doom and ominous grace,
Reveled and revealing,
Misunderstood through all time as something evil,
The great horns protrude through the whimsy,
Siphoning portions of animal instinct,
Fear the greatest export
Where is the fear of the blinding light,
That ignorant light that plagues the houses on the block
From every window flickers the flame
Television sets on sleep mode,
Movies set on the title menu playing over and over
While the sleeping body flails aimless in animated suspension,
Insomniacs accomplishing something trivial by reaching the next checkpoint,
Even the light of the candle burning as the neo-bohemian reads,
All looking out the window at the blaring buffoons ransacking the night,
Making love to the stars and howling at the moon,
Insanity and blindly causing the world’s collapse,
Laughing at the expense.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
Which is it: you can't get started unless
you're riding some current bigger than your reporting voice
or the best time to write is when you don't have much to say
and without plenty to say about everything you'll get better right
away.
Form is very often a betrayal of reality.
Although we are initially drawn to poems by their passion and
urgency,
we are convinced by the formal means invented
for their impelling motives. Every accidental crack or dent.
Not just mildly disquieted but actively repelled,
running for the River Styx, the doors of Hell pell mell,
there must be a crack, deep and unmendable, in the poet
that the poet must forever try to mend. Or not.
While mortal poets imitate, immortal poets steal.
That's plagiarism. Fortunately the public feels
less strongly about poetry than television,
communism and aging gracefully through meditation.
Now I'm being silly. My silly indefatigable lusting,
silly sadness, silly arguing and silly trusting.
All I do not know about our nation's history, wars
and what showering the people you love with love does.
Ransacking apothegms, algorithms
and selling the loot as memes,
dissemblings. Bearing fardels
with the warrior's skull.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 6:35 AM UTC
Searching through my circumcised conceits
ransacking allegorical nature
a more outlandish metaphor
alluding to your eyes glistening,
Though Shakespeare, were he to hear,
would revolve over over again
in his graves, may he feel free
to make jokes of.
I say with poetic assertion
confidence, no other allusion
would come closer to truth,
to my purpose, than me saying,
your eyes contain the sparkle of ten million diamonds:
they are far
far brighter than any sun.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Sitting here
Staring at the floor
Ransacking my stream of consciousness for
At least one solid thought
To write down
On this horridly clean
Piece of paper
I am tired
And alone
And entirely useless
(die, die, die)
Anywhere but here
Let's get out of this place
Go somewhere far, far away
Let's get in my car and
Drive and drive and drive
Until we forget why we left everything
But each other
Behind
In the first place
We might be dead by tomorrow
Come on, love
Let's go while we still can
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
there are so many of them
and there is only less
of me —
gondola in Venice,
H-bomb
and the knife of Bach;
a steady collision in Q. Ave
as the fizz of the afternoon mirage
settles with the ides,
the torn elephants of
Chiang Mai
the red blood of Golden Gates
the froth of the repeated wave
at the lip of the ocean,
city buoys lacerating
the skyscape
and your coming in here
ransacking all;
appeasements and
trivialities — there are so many
of your photographs here
and only less of me,
looking at all of you
and weeping it
later. sounds like these sounds
hanging by the edge of the bed
reducing woes to a hair-trigger.
i look outside and there
are women, cat-called by peddlers,
stopped by cabs, inside and outside
of cars with sometimes lovers
hot legs and all that,
simmering in the highway
glancing at them now
lamenting them later,
what's a dull boy to do in a dull town
with clothes dull wielding the
dull word?
meanwhile, there's so many of you
and there is only very scant of me left.
light voyeurs through the interstices
of the huddled masses,
panic screeches through the maddened
streets of Vito Cruz.
the night is all black and stark
and the heavy behemoth of existence
prods underneath where
rats, rodents and vermin run
plodding the highway with sleek varmint
demeanor. a lady passes by with a
string of fragrance dangling upon
her shoulder-blades.
what's a dull boy got to do in a dull city
with a dull heart?
there are so many of them for my
territorial hands cannot name
and there's only one of me:
unheroic
impinged
small
half-drunk and
half-believing
that there's something
a dull boy ought to do
in this dull city
with dull words but it comes
with an exorbitant outlay.
dog-leashes are expensive,
moonless hoots through opened
windows hefty with price.
moon-blooms again and again,
missing all hurt trying to repair
the ravaged — i look at young
girls, old women, fine and complete
and this thing of being me
on the market marked: sun-stifled.
there's so many of them
there's only a sum of me
that's often small and burgeoned
bringing the question
what's a dull boy to do in a dull city underneath a dull moon
within a dull crowd?
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
she moves
like a
band of thieves--
well into the
dog day's
twilight.
ransacking all
kinds of suckers.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC
Northern Lives Matter
Note the fine flowing plain lands
One where peace and order reigns
Residence to historic cultural affluence
That chaos admired from afar with pains
Homing the abiding partisan patriots
Entrenched in now ravenous blood hovers
Rustlers, insurgents effected their domains
Notorious bandits we once heard in fables.
Lives lost cruelly to obdurated elements
Imprinting images of guns and deaths
Voices raised; are our leaders ritualists?
Establishing innocent crime-made orphans
Spreading evils, afflictions and destructions.
Many a religious shrines turned death traps
And markets, farms; ransacking poor villages
That barely know governance and her benefits
Turned into flowing river of blood and tears
Emptying plangent hearts to quixotic elites
Rich in thoughts; gliding us to precipice.
Nov 6, 2021
Nov 6, 2021 at 5:43 PM UTC
Deadlines
Bleachers ripped out and put in the dessert so the audience can bleach their bones in the unforgiving sun in Mother Nature's desert
"Not too shabby
If I say so myself
It could make headlines
Sudden death
A stick up man verses a Gestapo
Lightning round
One suffers from Salmonella
The other is addicted to drinking Molotov cocktails for the hell of it
Throw them in the snake pit
We can hear gun shots
And the sound of someone being scalped
Get you souvenir **** plugs here!
These two *** wipes are in the because we had probable cause
One tried ransacking the whole place
And the other came out of the woodwork and threatened the room service boy with cellophane and gasoline
We've taken the proper precautions of course
We have nurses who, after each round will kiss their wounds
Then rag on them and all their short comings
Just for the sake of it
Making this show was a long shot
We never thought it be so big
But all our clients are eating up
What are you mumbling?"
Uh, would you say this sideshow act is inhuman or would you say it's heinous?
"No comment"
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
i was beneath the bed
listening to the in-out
thinking about how we
all take the air differently
when josh came with the cold
outside and drunkenly mistook
me for Christina, found his unusual
place and passed out in stiff shadows,
smelling faintly of fireball cinnamon whisky--
plenty of moments reserved for sinking
or abandoning ship, receding into that quiet
place, hungry for a will and a way
when matthias finds me ransacking the
kitchen cabinets, i am rattling the underground
Seattle with a clorox induced vengeance
because i only seem to find peace in leaving
an old place clean, running my fingers through
jello shots that have disintegrated sometime in
the 3 am when for a few minutes we must
have all been asleep.
( all the while Adele )
hums in the background--a languid Hello
solemnly stitching itself into my memory
something to later hold dear, some fragment
of an adolescence that was realized on this
night, when I was removed from the place
beneath the bed, stolen from the house
dreaming that I was found inside
the mouths of strangers that
passed alongside Boylston
with their misshapen bodies
coiled in streamers and
various liquors
so when i return at 7 am
still wide awake and waiting
I examine my ******* in the
foggy mirror of the bathroom
before taking what I would
endearingly refer to as the
dirtiest shower off my life---
how could such a thing
be so? I'm curious myself.
I've spent two weeks cleaning an old place.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
Searching through my circumcised conceits
ransacking allegorical nature
for a more outlandish metaphor
alluding to your eyes glistening,
Though Shakespeare, were he to hear,
would revolve over over again
in his graves, may he feel free
to make jokes of.
I say with poetic assertion,
confidence, no other allusion
would come closer to truth,
to my purpose, than me saying,
your eyes contain the sparkle of ten million diamonds:
they are far
far brighter than any sun.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
im losing myself.
i can feel the woman inside me
quietly ransacking the inside of my brain,
trying to find a weak spot
so she can take off
with the last bit of free will that i have left.
i can feel the life draining from my body.
i want to shriek and kick at her hands full of my life;
but my limbs don’t move.
i try to scream, but no sound comes out.
anxiety begins to course through my bloodstream.
i feel it pumping into my heart,
up to my brain,
leaving a blistering trail of agony behind it.
please, i try to shout at her.
i try to make her stay.
“i’ve been gone for years, my love.” her voice sends goosebumps all over my body.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
I used to have plenty wishes.
Tirelessly praying day and night, remembering a time when I was five, knelt down infront of a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for a miracle.
Unbeknownst to the fact that I am the only one listening, and even I find my words inaudible. Flooding my mouth with tears, catapulting down tired ducts, circumventing those delinquent eyes that have seen enough.
I now lay in a bed of flowers, they have found a home in my skin, roots sprouting, making ground, making love to the sound.
Gardening my soul with delectable cries only I could hear, but this time my words are unforgivingly clear.
Flames arousing, fire stirring in my ***** the pleasure of sculpting my own home, a concrete built on fantasy, a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for an escape.
That child remembers.
I carry that day’s scent on my fingers.
Spewing pangs of pain and joy with every recall. I remember relief.
Relief that finally, I am not the only one burning, ashes zigzag their way to the earth, spectators mildly immersed.
I no longer need to pretend that I am blind just to allow myself to see.
A star witness to my own memory.
God help a family on fire.
My father has burned our home way before mama did. A reflection, a projection of truth has ferociously emerged into a play for our very own eyes to feast- we would have never survived our own characters.
Now, I often find myself oddly silent, ransacking my cerebellum, almost an assault to this new found pendulum, prosecuting myself for not wanting more-
for I no longer fear.
That child remember’s it clear.
And for the first time in my life, in numerous occasions, I am no longer afraid to face my reflection, and the very thought that I am a nobody is monstrously enough in a world where everybody is religiously pleading to be handcuffed.
I spread my legs wide like a canvass, waiting for someone to play with, I am still a child whose hands need blessing.
This flower is finally blossoming, delineating pain and joy, emanating an unfamiliar yet familiar fragrance. It’s no longer a reflection nor a projection of mom’s addiction-
I now pray in providence,
making love out in the open.
Sealing all the vocabularies of life, the decibel of truth has finally found its tune in my very own coming.
I have enough.
God help a woman in love,
God help a woman brave enough to touch herself.
Dec 29, 2019
Dec 29, 2019 at 2:13 AM UTC
And one day when you grew tired of turning,
only to find no one there,
tired of ransacking your mind
for positive thoughts to keep afloat,
you reached out to me
motioning for me to enter your life
and put an end to self-doubt,
to blanket you with my touch, my kiss, my soul.
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC