"revulsion" poems
no one is subscribing
to the universal affection
draining subconscious ailment
that needs no treatment
quaking with fear
shaking with revulsion
looking to prolong
an hour, a minute
stretching one second
into ten seconds
where are we going,
past the streetlights
the crossroads
the commotion
inside the canal boat
that surrounds and accompanies
this road -
will it ends one day,
sometimes, somewhere
and brings an end
to the entire's generation
guilt and disease?
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 7:33 PM UTC
Sunshine,
Birdsong
And children drunk on
Lemonade
And laughter.
That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
In daydream
And nightmare.
The stream babbled
Over pebbles,
Fern fronds
Brushed our sun-browned shins
Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.
Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.
Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.
The rocks we hurled at it
In reckless revulsion
Were the screams
Of violated youth,
And those empty dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
The birthday song is not a song it's not even a small ditty
As it is only four lines long it's really rather ******
There isn't a good chorus so isn't that a pity
A catchy tune it has not got and the lyrics are not witty
This song's lyrics are so short and there all the ****** same
Apart from the 3rd line down when you substitute a name
Okay you say "Dear" instead of "To", but its still a basic frame
So this is not a song at all so why has it got the fame
It's no wonder people alter the words with monkeys in the zoo
And looking like these critters and smelling like them too
Or changed to bread and butter in the gutter or squashed tomatoes and stew
Because the song is so boring so what else can you do
Who the hell wrote this song was it someone who's autistic
Come on now lets be frank and a bit more realistic
If I where to write this song producers would go ballistic
I'd get thrown out of the biz and become a lost statistic
Just because it's your birthday I'm not singing about happy
People are compelled to sing when really its just ******
It's not the best song in the world I don't want to sound so snappy
The birthday song is full of crap just like a soiled *****
It's like we are pre programmed even Marilyn Monroe
To sing the ****** birthday song just for ****** show
But honestly this song is crap and it can surely go
And we can stop with the pretence and cease going with the flow
When your birthday does arrive and your expecting a big day
The time will come when you know your ears are going to pay
Cos someone's bound to start it with or without your say
Why does it have to be sung does it have to be this way
Singing the birthday song should not be a life compulsion
Don't succumb to the trend and quash your minds impulsion
Stamp down on the process and enforce a song expulsion
Do away with this song and all of its revulsion
The birthday song is not a song when it's sixteen words long
Half of them are happy birthday that doesn't constitute a song
The wording is so ****** thin as thin as a snapped thong
And the musical arrangement isn't even strong
People should not sing this song not even a small bit
Why is it classed as a song we should stop singing it
Most of the words are the same and there is a lack of wit
So don't sing the birthday song cos it's not a song it's ****
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
We once burned witches...
No.
We burned people who were accused
of being witches or practicing witchcraft...
never proven but still burned....
burned alive...
wether or not they were witches
will remain unknown
and why should it
have mattered if they were,
what excuse was that to have
behaved so maliciously hateful and cruel
I will tell you this though
if I had been a witch
or knew any kind of witchcraft
the first thing i would have done
is work out a fire proof charm
perfected an unburnable spell
an I can walk through the fire
and feel a hell of a lot better
after doing so spell
a my blood and bones
burn hotter than the sun spell
a you better get that
little matchstick outta my face spell
before I show you how to burn
THE REAL MONSTERS here spell
the monsters with the lust
to watch flesh turn
to cinder and ash monsters
the monsters who feared
the unordinary who showed
any kind of extraordinary monsters
the monsters of the masses
with crosses that burned
like torches monsters
the monsters who screamed ******
in the name of....
monsters
the monsters who could not see
their own reflection
for the hideous creatures
they were monsters
the same monsters that still live today
on this side of the looking glasses
under our thin skinned social structure
still burning witches
subtly now
with words of disdain
full of pernicious intentions
towards the lost and the lonely
with the cold staring eyes of indifference
and hearts without an once of compassion
towards the homeless and hungry
with the revulsion and abhorrence
towards those who love
the ones they love
the witches being any unordinary
that show any kind of extraordinary
still being feared for their difference
still being hated
reduced to nothing but
pill size suicides
red ribboned wrists
rope neck ties
for feeling too much
pushing too far
flying too high
dancing in cinder to ash
being burned
burned for being alive
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 3:32 AM UTC
I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room
I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out
after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout
or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff
children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare
Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get beaten, black and blue
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
A frozen avalanche set my night aglitter,
A festive shroud descends upon the theater.
Crimson sirens cleave apart the verdant veil,
Into the darkness we stride without fail.
Beyond the jubilation lies the next chapter,
With adamant fortitude we give thee cheer.
To each their own joys; for none with least,
Lest we drown in today, few dice are cast.
Behold my picture, let the verdict be: asleepy.
I jest, I grin, yet within: smooth boreal sea.
Tis simpler to repulse that which is coveted,
A gaze that levels souls; I've gladly forfeited.
Why? I cannot answer what I do not know,
Yet reason continues to war with my soul.
Let the rain cleanse my self-aimed ire,
From whence come this burning desire?
By dulcet caitiff, I set my conundrum aside,
The crux of life remain, my Draconian hide.
Plebeian ennui paralyzes my gifted facilities,
Enough sophistry, let I bid thee turgidities.
Let mine eyes be painted blind.
How else to behold beauty so fine?
Why, my sober vision...
Scream in revulsion! :DD
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC
This sore saviour keeps a straight-faced stare
Lips pressed tight, tongue wedged in teeth
While watching indolence twist in haste
To reach the next refuge
Revulsion that we two symbols share
That same motion-sickness fear
One of action, the other of consequence
Or lack thereof; without / within
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
you’ve broken me
you wrapped your hands around my throat
and whispered your words of malign, pulling my hair
cutting my tongue
there’s no escaping you, old friend of mine
but I lost you in the tremors of my mind
used to be filled with beauty, kindness and grace
but I don’t even recognise your face
I look at you with disgust
and you look back at me with revulsion
I clench my fist, you clench yours
now, shards of glass are on the floor
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
My feelings of hate border on revulsion
Repulsion bordering on abhorrence,
Course through my veins
My blood is thick with ill will
Sociopathic thoughts fire my personal hatred
Hate is more powerful than love
Love hurts hate kills.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
leisure up my friend !
weaken open your shellfish hinge
and wet your beak
it’s a marked holiday break
unmarred by family obligation
there’s freedom
to make the most criminal crown of mistakes
in the name
of some frown of liberal investigation
on the town
an eager squad of collaborators are on board
they have your back
desperate, sick and starving gulls
broadened to explore the deplorable
on and on to the next and the next
death defining task
a meandering stagger of a bar crawl
perpetually powering through
as the day spans a revulsion
the heat stays as the day sinks beneath
in place of the suns rays
the heat radiates
from the baked city concrete
stepping out from the shelter of the bar
the night swelter respires fiercely
not done with our steam of annihilation
what establishment would take our kind ?
city has already bowed over it's plumage
to our ******* pilgrimage
bark melts and peels in strips off the trees
(meat shaved off the strip pole)
our heels spark the pavement
vermin and jackals follow our movement
from shimmering dark spots
and our vision constricts
our aim has become clotted...
...what was it that we reached for ?
oblivions fruit seemed a doable pursuit
it's the usual downhill shambles from here
familiar yet barely remembered
a rambling guff of bad ***** comedy
there is no plucky legend
just an embarrassment
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 9:47 PM UTC
If I could only open you up and reach inside.
I wish I could give you my passion.
I wonder what the look on your face would be, if you knew
If you knew what it feels like to love someone like I love you.
I think that look would **** me.
The grief that you hadn't felt it before,
The joy that you had it finally,
The fear that life would take it from you.
Your tears burn me.
They hurt in a way that can't find words to live within.
It is a concept that speech only talks around.
I want to give you the world.
I want to show you that you are not a mirror,
Flat and soulless unless somebody is looking.
You are an ocean,
Deep and dark and beautiful, and full.
You make me want to create something lovely and devote it to you,
Simply to let you know that you inspire such things.
You make me want to be what you see me as,
Be better, be stronger, be wiser
For you.
So that you may finally have something fair come to you in this life.
What a sad joke, that you get me as your makeshift savior.
I know the perfect things to say,
The very strings to tug to make you fall apart,
Unravel like a lovely tapestry ruined.
It slays me to do it, to hurt you to heal you.
I know just how to break you down and do it like it's an accident,
Because how could I explain to your trusting heart
That to save it I must bleed it out like this?
But the thing is, you can wreck me too,
You beautiful thing,
Fragile and raw,
You can speak the simplest words and my soul...
It tears itself to bits.
And I think, “Oh god, please don't tell me.
Don't rip my heart out.
Don't be hurt like you are.
Oh, if I could pause you now and never have to know!
It would be as if I didn't already see how fractured you are inside.
I could pretend you're not, I could still save you in my mind...”
But there it is, cold and hard in type.
And I am lost.
And I want to die in the worst way,
To slit my wrists because I exist in the same world that he does,
And I am so revolted that I could do it.
For a moment I really could.
Oh, and you can never know this, never.
Because I am your savior,
Your lion,
Your super hero.
And you hurt so much, and I die every time.
But I have to be there for you,
Up in lights.
As if I know what I'm doing.
As if I can bring justice.
As if I can erase cruelty.
As if I am not afraid, not just shaking with revulsion
That this world is such a place as it is.
I am your super hero, darling,
And I can't breathe.
I can’t save you,
And it will **** me.
How do you exist? How do you yet live?
How is it that you are this whole and so exquisite?
I want to be your hero,
God, I want to be perfect at it.
I want to be your hero.
Because in the end,
Until the end,
You are mine.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
The mist was almost ethereal
It floated above the silent waters
But silent was not always
Peaceful, for too touch the mist
Visions,
Pain,
Faded
Limbs, as if the mist had amputated flesh,
But revealed gradually upon exiting
like lacerations it cut
As the mist faded, I could feel but not see,
Bone,
Nerves,
Flesh,
Skin now where mist had evaporated,
"Then the visions"
"Hard to explain"
To count the emotions, then blank,
I was burning, drowning
The torture with in my mind
I saw each one fall, taken by the waters
All that was sunk beneath
All that could have been
Now taken to the deep,
I looked upon the waters where mist
Did not creep,
Revulsion,
Anxiety,
Sorrow
For those beneath, like a tainted mirror
"Trying to break free"
For within each impact a wave
Washed ashore,
It corroded what life it touched
Anger was washing upon the riverbank,
"So many drowning slowly"
A last breath a life time of agony
Slowly those that exhaled the last,
No peace as the mist was there final curse,
Trapped within, souls screaming outwards,
"To touch felt there pain within"
"This river of the lost ones"
Those who thought freedom from
Pain, now suffered a lifetime within,
"For the forgotten river"
"Where the mist never falters"
"Try to drown your sorrows"
"Eternity will be the price paid"
One within the waters,
Eternal torment within the screaming ethereal mists..
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
when i heard about it,
when i heard of “free art:”
i thought of free bread and wine,
and celtic sirens,
i laughed though... you made the earth
so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts.
when art became free we tried to moralise
drinking wine (as a portent of richness)
and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion),
i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who
discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.”
the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer
but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into
a hope of kings and village kindred elders,
but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus,
caged the gypsy have i?
i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation,
i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess,
well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine
rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists;
making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity,
it just became a realism of a struggled acting -
i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in
the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without
the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation
of brazilians and ******** disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights
just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers
without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed.
i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men
didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality,
and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning
i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the ****
meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet,
realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams,
perfected in thailand... of all places;
that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal,
moving further east of mecca than riyadh and
the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
I know the feeling experienced,
when everything crumbles
before you without warning
because you were not paying
attention or prepared for the
pressures of the pesky people
who contends with you to mess
up what took you a lifetime to build.
Everything crashes and tumbles
before you just like that.
Starting all over again is like being
born again in a world of uncertainty
full of intriguingly mesmerizing awe
and revulsion.
Where do you begin from here,
how can this happen to you,
you wonder how much time you have
left to get things done all over again.
Don't worry about it,
just begin from the beginning.
Pick up the crumbs,
the left over and the pieces of the bricks
and pebbles thrown at you to forge again
the blue print with resilient
attitude to create the masterpiece
that will guarantee you a unique
spot in the world that stands you out
powerfully into the spotlight.
Unbeatable and a valued and
treasured friend in the world.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 5:52 PM UTC
Well let’s just jump right into it.
Everyone knows, the question right, “Which came first?” So let’s suppose, just for argument’s sake, in this specific case that is, that which came first was the egg. It’s also really the end of it in this case as well because there’s no chicken to follow. Just really it’s followed with the warm lettuce and the recooked bacon, the unripe tomato on a freshly baked bagel, which for argument’s sake is really the only part of the whole she-bang that’s actually any good.
But if that’s true then why even include the egg. Why abolish the chance for a chicken to exist? Why not just get a plain bagel? Well it’s about protein, you know. Does anyone really even like eggs or do we just eat them for protein? Does anyone like them, for argument’s sake let’s call it Tim Horton’s, does anyone really like them, eggs that is, when they’re cooked at Tim Horton’s? Are they even really eggs or just that powder, you know what I mean, that eggy powder like the powder milk that they have in the military? And if it is right, that eggy powder stuff, would anyone even care? Morally I mean, you have to assume people (which people I don’t know, some people I guess) stand behind eggy powder. But others right, you know the ones, who are disgusted by the idea of eggy powder. I’m one of those, not ashamed of it either and you know what, let’s just assume that it is eggy powder that they use at Tim Horton’s in their bagel BELTs. Would I have bought it if I thought it was eggy powder, probably not but here we are and I did and for argument’s sake let’s just say I already ate the whole thing. I mean morally I’ve just saved a chicken’s life but now I’m revolted by my having just consumed powdered eggs (right that’s what they’re called).
Let’s assume also that now I feel as though I’m figuratively standing on a moral high-ground but I’m also more or less disgusted by what I’ve just eaten even though I’m proud of myself for having eaten it, or rather not eaten a genuine egg. I’m ashamed of my disgust right and this has now proliferated into a casual nexus of disgust, shame and pride.
Q: Is it better to eat the powdered egg and simultaneously feel pride and revulsion or is it better to eat a real egg and **** a potential chicken?
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
My hands around your heart,
grip ceasing pulsation,
dying sconce, ember fades.
Convulsion, revulsion,
pathetic emotive,
response contradiction.
Electrically impulsive
transmission flat lines addiction,
and radiates into ether.
© Copyright Mr. James P Machen 26/08/2014 for viewing only. May not be replicated.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Quail eggs, duck fat
Liverwurst at its worst
Pâté is passé
Bulgur is ******
Shellfish emulsion
Widespread revulsion
Giblets and gravy, soured and skinned
Simmered, steamed, fried and ******
(order up)
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 2:57 PM UTC
the dregs of your spotted smiles somersaulted in an elegant arc
fell in helpless array and landed nine planets away from my feet
and something slightly old still feeds my anger at your impatience
I forage through my grace to keep my tongue from spilling mess
and my heart feels all squiggly as I sneeze my way to your mocking silence
I gladly offer sweet indulgence while you openly despise my faults
I forage through my fantasies, not wishing to appear so trivial
lesions swell on the plastic head of revulsion
let not depression eat at your sweet magical pulse
still strongly beating in the sometimes sepulchral coffers of life
scorn not the honey bee buzzing or the hummingbird flitting
embrace the nuisance of calamity
for it helps along the way
to make vigorous the spirit
to wedge a cardiac space in place of pillowcase full of stones
where giants sleep in silent meadows across the land
sensing no sharp slingshot from no nifty bottle legged creature
and disappearing into the thicket would be the right time
on a heavy back, a child carries a burden made of toxic crayons
to melt away the awful prejudice of its forbears; undo the chains
the bringer of rain stands alone in a puddle, or is it a lake?
are YOU awake?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
I do not like olives.
They are the only food
I have been unable to educate myself into.
Just one food,
Most people have more,
But I will eat anything
Rather than an olive,
I'd rather gobble down a rotten egg.
I want to like them.
When the waiter brings a little bowl,
Balsamic, bread and oil,
I sigh and let the wistfulness kick in.
They are so civilised,
So summery,
I feel I'm missing out -
- But I just can't -
They taste like mackintosh,
Or shower gel,
Or toothpaste gone wrong.
I feel sorry for the olives,
Offering a holiday vibe,
A Mediterranean ambience,
And meeting revulsion, rejection,
(Juddery shuddering).
Perhaps I am making too much of this,
No-one can like everything,
They will never know.
Perhaps I am someone's olive aversion.
Perhaps they are
(Juddery shuddering)
At the thought of me, right now.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
The demons are bleeding from the walls
Pouring thick like screeching molasses
Grabbing me by my eye sockets
With twelve inch ripping talons
Pulling and tearing my flesh taut
Like some morose antagonism of obesity
Dragging me thru the hardwood floorboards
Thru a river flowing with moaning, groaning souls
Cast into a stygian darkness that blinds the eyes
The magnitude of grotesque revulsion
That unveils itself before me
In monstrous catastrophe
Ignites my dejected soul
To wisps of smoke and smoldering ashes
Set to a contour of unremitting denunciation
Scorching pits of fire, brimstone, and sulfur
The suffocated withering of my intentions
The agony of ennui
And the simplicity of sin
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 10:50 AM UTC
I placed my bread to heat for just five seconds--
behold: when I came for it, it wasn't alone.
A mayfly had set up camp (so to speak)
with my wheat bread, my most favored
Amish-baked, sliced-before-my-own eyes bread;
and when I say it "set up camp," I do not
mean anything pleasant. I do mean six thin legs
sprawled long and broken when discovered
and perhaps some melted insides; who's to say?
Something turned inside of me and I'm certain
I grimaced at least a little, and took my plate back,
thinking, disturbed just slightly. How had I not
seen the fly? It couldn't have touched the bread--poor thing--
just rested there, unknowing, to be slaughtered.
*"Mom...Mom...Ahh, uhh, Mom! Mom?"
(mother assesses circumstances, unceremoniously takes a napkin
to my victim, and introduces his corpse to the garbage)
"He probably wasn't in there when I...right?"
--"It probably was."
"But five seconds couldn't have killed him."
I know I am wrong
as I feel the warm grains of my prize.
(mother gives a long look and says...)
--"If it heated the bread, I'm sure it heated the bug."*
I took my bounty anyway--the bread, that is, mind you--
and went to eat it absentmindedly, but found that
now impossible. Sigh. I also found myself
staring, long and hard, then, at half of a piece
of glorious, Heaven-breathed wheat bread,
and suddenly realized that I could not discern
whether or not I was enjoying it. ******
And then I tried to reassure myself by chiding
inwardly, "You're just afraid of insects
irrationally," but maybe I actually
felt that the blood of an
innocent life was on
my hands.
*Why are they so stupid? I ask
no one really, fighting revulsion,
grasping for blame.*
Alas, I finished eating but felt rightly robbed
of some essential part of the experience.
Yet, such is life.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
6 sides
Latent enabler
Counterpoint to truth, amorphic
Dada to life
Callous Birth
Islands dripped in collagen
Mystic, effortless life
Tempests laden iota in tune
Riven
Licked flat, obtuse
Crescent stench
Pagan cells
Hazard the thought
Pick the Atlantic cherry
Reach further than comfort
Pushed & consumed
Spirited paste
Jesuit told in spheres
Lament interest, matted quill
Totem, Saxon tribe
Inflections of hearsay
And Swastikas on parade
Guilt of the blacksmith, undecided
The arms of tablets
Ashtrays & tropospheric light
Another page turned
Capsules filled with perfume
Loose skin lost in relics
Temporal lobe
Cautioned indignant
Pardon the prose
Sonnets dissolved in ethanol
Caricatures of the fleeting
Of our cities last broadcast
Absorbed by times gone
Glittered pestilence
Canceling subordinates, powdered Semtex
Soup of the sewer
Lift the butcher above your head
Nazca lines
Suborbital
Silk screen with *****
Horizontal qualm toward revulsion
Incursion
Calm, cued and cubed
Lab coats coated in pharmaceuticals
Base compound, ionic bond
Covalent CNS
Sympathetic vibration
Default to nature
To theorise movement
Agitate intolerance, turbulence
Beautiful thought
Calculate causality
Passenger of licked lips
Token to latex
Croft in ear, to taste
Unlaced tips, rings of halothane
Bliss
Intrigued with obscurity
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
Hellhounds! Who be this stranger?
Here she dreams upon my pillow,
I slide away out of range,
Spaces between us sheets weeping willows.
Staring down at shouted words escaping through barred teeth,
She, unknown malice, hissed sparks,
Upon my bed I see a sleeping leech,
Her skin so silvery filled with shady dark.
I reach over confused and touch her shoulder,
Know not I who this creature be?
Flashes explode, memories and desires colder,
****** lady! I fear I may know thee!
Peering closer still, I witness a face on her slender neck,
Biting softly the flesh of arguments,
Distances separate short spaces, we two are shackled
By more than mere blankets and entwined garments.
Fingers heavily encircled with golden evidence,
Pregnant spite spirals spoonfuls of fire,
Her reptilian eye flutters, I crawl back with revulsion,
Accusations, pointed fists, secrets buried, she’s a fiery liar.
I don’t recognize the bloated face,
She turns over, stares balefully and clenches with disgust,
God, she reads me, I’m a shadow without trace,
I’m alone, a child hunting for tattered trust.
Finally the nightmare reaches a foggy ******
I see the familiar blade furrows in her spidery hair,
Falling into the damp smell of the pillow I relax,
She’s my wife, a solitary maid my mind will never share.
©Rangzeb Hussain
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
Blood foams out of Mary’s mouth.
Grass on her skirt.
Grubs shift beneath her, trying to breathe.
Pink foam runs down her chin.
Jeremiah hasn’t moved in an hour.
Lying on the grass with his hair rotting.
Bathtub flesh tangled in senescence.
Jesus, where the **** did the time go?
It’s Autumn approaching Winter.
Little nooses run down tree branches and settle round all the leaves.
Hugging them until their necks sever like Isaiah’s.
Eve shakes his shoulder to wake him but his head just rolls further into the gutter.
A dazed expression of absolute revulsion.
Whatever.
I pick up a stick and pierce Eve’s flesh.
Over and over.
Because I’m bored.
And she’s there.
Barely perceiving her own existence.
Shaking the headless body of Isaiah.
While Mary collapses into a black hole.
And Jeremiah sinks into the ground.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
up on Boot Hill
the sun sets early
the soaked anguish
of grieving mothers
swaddled in
twilight's vestments
mourn the death
of another murdered
child
we roll our eyes
and speak in tongues
tiny prayers
incant
RIP
these reflexive bits,
our shattered votives
litter city boulevards
on each solemn
street corner
new alters
of desecration
are erected
then despoiled with
the wasted wax of
misspent novenas
our extended families
are bloodlines of fear
spawning
prostrate men
tattooed with
multicolored pain
who refuse to cover
body marks
bespeaking epic tales
of sorrow,
divisions
countless separations
also marking
righteous reasons
of seething
resentments
eager to settle
accounts
sweet vendettas
clever ambushes
carefully deliberated
for generations
by discordant clans
believing in malice
exalting guns
shared loss
is our
common
affliction
uniting everyone
in envelopes of sadness
becoming live
Dear John letters
bearing news of dearly
departed loves
atop the coffins
of dead children
votives pile high
with scrawled eulogies
of fevered graffiti
solemnly pledging
“gonna make someone suffer
gonna even the score
never forget you
RIP”
and we all die
looking stupid as hell
lamenting
love don’t rest in peace
hearing
it scream from the grave
witnessing
the hallowed earth
churning with revulsion
accepting the bitter ashes
of another dead child
for the love of you
is your funeral march
love don’t RIP
it stalks the tomb
of indifference
it mourns
the ambivalence
of its devaluation
it haunts the
day dreams
of what could
have been
it restlessly
flits among
the playgrounds
of our minds
cluttering the rooms
of our homes
with grief
up on Boot Hill
we clasp the
small hands
protruding from
shallow graves
groping to find
a graceful sleep
for love don’t
rest in peace
Stevie Wonder:
Love Is In Need of Love Today
Written to honor
Love Appreciation Day
jbm
Oakland
1/19/13
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC