"sacking" poems
We are born in times of Herod, but never flee,
From Holy to sin mutation erupted in our mist,
Consumed by **** screen to scream in addiction cage,
We set our bodies free, let them hunt hormones.
We created a Universe in our nakedness,
Exposed twinkling stars,
Empty Souls.
A relationship with darkness
Lights off,
Incubus and succubus collided.
And He said, "Who told you that you were naked?
Genesis 3:11
Things we learn when our parents close Eyes praying for us are poisonous,
We kissed dead bodies sacking their venoms
Slowly we carry souls in our backs.
We are lost.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC
The simplest of shapes are losing their form.
The sun will blend in with the shade at this rate
I can't stand up in this storm.
No safety in numbers, but death by swarm.
Winds of change whelp under gravity's weight.
The simplest of shapes are losing their form.
Chaos cracks its knuckles 'fore sacking the norm
then squashes infinity- not one line's left straight.
I can't stand up in this storm.
Providence whimpers as fate's left forlorn.
Pandemic obscurity greedily takes
the simplest of shapes and scrambles their form.
Hurled into reverse, things once dead are born.
The simplest of forms are losing their shape.
I can't stand up in this storm.
Lives flash before me- things start to go warm.
Time left for prayer, but I fear it's too late.
The simplest of shapes are losing their form
I can't stand up in this storm.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 11:08 AM UTC
this old heart
wasn’t always so old,
it once was young and
tenderfoot,
wandering through days and
seeking regalement at night.
this old heart
rarely defeated it’s angst,
clenching fists at duelists
only with intentions of
defeasance,
never relegating the significance
of the win but focusing on the
sacking in a loss.
this old heart
played board games with
his sister on snow days after
laying out paths in the white dust
with an orange saucer
while chasing a laughter
only the belly could muster.
this old heart
was once a boy,
with hair like the white hot sun
on an August afternoon,
with bronze skin running about the grass,
chasing an aging brown dog with a ball
in it’s mouth.
this old heart
was once a boy, yes,
but remains no longer.
this old heart grows weary now.
this old heart bears weight.
this old heart stopped asking questions.
this old heart doesn’t laugh.
this old heart has no dog.
this old heart gets lost in the dark
whiling staring into the blinding sun.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
The same acts done by Saviors
all those Mythic Years ago
would be seen as or said to be
acts of Terrorism andTreachery today:
Conciser the proverbial situations of
Flipping the Tax Collector's Tables
Sacking the Evil cities, like Jericho
Questioning the Dogma of Antiquity
Resisting the Tyranny that Is
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
i find it bewildering that the greeks,
know as the byzantines are known for no name,
but a date: 1453 (the sacking of Constantinople),
while greeks per se, are known for the philosophers
and the mythology prior... thus the timelessness of
the latter... and the insignificance of the former;
the latter have been simply bleached,
a milder ethnic cleansing to erase their pre-history
with a non-history that history is said to
have taken place, even though it has;
one greek i met at university
said the pride of greece was Constantinople
rather than Athens...
how unified Greece and Turkey now seem
when having to ***** the Syrians
and wonder why the plagiarism of Trojans
(that's Rome) seems to be caught unaware
to what further ascription of furthered
plagiarism is necessary to keep a vitality.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 9:46 PM UTC
She could have been beautiful
She could have been tough
She could have been so many things
There was titanium where her bones should have been
and liquid steel coursing through her veins
there was a wildfire in her eyes
But she's been torn
someone ripped her wide open
and everyone could see inside
While she was sitting there with a gaping chest
something was taken from deep within
something precious was stolen by the quickest thief
Her body was a temple
it was the sacking of Troy
the magnificence of her soul is gone
What was stolen was broken
the pieces of it falling to the darkest corners of the universe
leaving nothing left for her to have
Now the emptiness occupies her body
she doesn't understand
how can something so hollow completely fill her up
She is walking irony
a living oxymoron
because somehow she was too much and not enough at the same time
and now she has bones of ice
and blood of water
you snuffed the wildfire like it was a candle flame
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
You are
A Long Train
And singed
Such a hard labour
A disfigured lump
In a pale chromosome
Your voice is perspiring
And your sterile tall slant -wise to the left
So
Petrified me
Your very soul
When she pack her luggage, as a blindman
Plucking vines in the dust
Let it be
A Let alone
Your Head Gloves
And learn the names for ten touching things
And see for all
Without sacking their faces with your eyes
And throw them so
A beggar coins casted away in a dish
Laid down on the the fear's pavement
Let it be
Let alone
Your heart
It depends on who pays more !!!
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Forecaster's greatest joy
The weather equivalent
Of the sacking of Troy...
Hell and damnation
Aloft in the clouds,
Heavenly wrath from
Funnel-ish shrouds.
My father wakes,
Prepares for chores,
Quick breakfast takes,
Throws on his coat,
Slides boots for wet or dry
On his aging feet,
Heads to the barn
In every weather,
Adjusting to the wind
And sun and precipitation,
Weatherman or no,
Undaunted if he sees
Hard rains
Or falling snow.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
Poison
Poison, dripping on the tongue
soaking in the flesh
crawling through the veins
possessing the body
reaping the soul
waiting inside...
waiting to be caught red-handed.
Hate,
a poison I know too well,
gripping my heart
sacking my defenses
and throwing them into the river.
Hate ignites my passion
turns lover to monster
turns monster to lover
and all the while
I drink in the crude oil.
This raw token of evil.
Its malice is like
the claws of a lion
hidden
waiting
like poison
suddenly they thrash!
Peace is cut to pieces.
I once had an appetite for lovers.
Now, I only appetize the monsters.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 5:55 PM UTC
I sit once more dismissed,
A lonely figure in my head and my heart,
Aware of the specific trigger
For my sacking as your partner, lover, friend,
Yet also keenly aware that
Once again ADHD has twisted reality
And scale and proportion
To the point your rage knows
Nearly no bounds,
Only that I must be destroyed
And in this there is such
Injustice and a great untruth,
Because I read your verse,
I see the photo's we took even on a day
When we met but to part,
And what I see,
What I see over and over and over,
Is the flow of love from thee to me
And me to thee and thence back,
A circular intimacy without end,
Until you took bolt cutters to it
Sought to free a link in the chain
You feel has bound me to you
And you to me,
And us to we,
But here is the thing love,
That loop is like Hercules soul,
'Tis harder than you think to cut,
There is always a hair's breadth
You cannot ever sever,
Yet for now I must wait alone in the shadows,
Away from the warmth of our love,
That irrational you that arose from
Pain and ADHD
Must depart before
The real us
Can
Return
Jun 20, 2024
Jun 20, 2024 at 12:33 PM UTC
I will never have good financial standing.
My wallet must feel besieged,
Like the sacking of King’s Landing.
Money just flies through my fingers;
Like the angel of death,
Bankruptcy always looms and lingers.
I spend it on escapades and exuberance,
On journeys to escalate my studies of life,
To forbear nothing from its tutelage.
I will never have a peaceful, settled life;
No 2.3 kids, no doting, darling wife.
Neither will I have a Golden Retriever;
No picture-perfect moments,
No Instagram photo captioned ‘she’s a keeper.’
I will go the edges of the world;
I will unfurl hammocks, as the jungles get deeper,
As I hear the whispers of life,
And my ears strain to listen like receivers.
I don’t care about losing either of those prospects;
Uninteresting endeavours, uninspiring projects.
To me, only love deserves mourning;
It is the primer of all things,
The driver of all of nature’s calls,
The reason why the mockingbird sings.
That must be why my heart can’t stand the quiet,
Why I’m like a viral riot, an epidemic insurrection.
That must be why I’m mourning an unrequited connection.
You are everything I will never have.
I will have an empty heart, and empty hands.
If it never happens in this life,
I hope I’ll get to see you again in the next one.
Sep 2, 2019
Sep 2, 2019 at 3:44 AM UTC
you should know better than sacking hopeless places,
it is no glorious feat:
white hands,
erecting flags in the wounds of a pagan soil;
i wish i could've returned to dust right then.
white hands,
caressing softly the marks left by your whip
on my skin — now, a blank sheet,
wide open for your kisses;
but by now, your tongue should've known that
papercuts wound all the same.
my chest had been a burial place
for the nights i couldn't name;
and tonight,
my heart wants to leave behind
the very tomb —
the very body you seized for yourself —
the very host to your planted flags
and romanesque cathedrals
and brothels,
and tonight will be the crusades
for all these captured, lovely ashes
and all these captured, lovely bones.
and into the wind i'll be scattered.
and into the wind i'll go.
and honey, you may think you have won the war
but this is the song waiting in the taverns
that women will sing for you back home.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 6:49 AM UTC
Mother
new Mother
lies birth sore
and always close to a bathroom
Little Lamb
screams it’s new song raw
reading loss through its tender sacking
Faithless Lover is already next door
receiving well wishes
and plundering attention
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 12:35 AM UTC