"sardonically" poems
People keep asking me how I’m doing.
If I’m getting better or if I’ve taken the time to process what’s happened.
If I’ve sought professional help for the metal percussions induced by my career-ending injury.
In all honesty though, professional help is futile. It can’t save me now.
I’m walking through hell and sitting in a ring of fire discussing the temperature of the searing flames would be idiotic.
Why would I allow the flames to dance along my already seared skin longer than necessary?
I know they’re hot.
I know I’m in hell.
I know the pain I feel every day is real and crippling.
Talking about this pain wouldn’t end it. It wouldn’t diminish the heat. It wouldn’t help.
I need to keep walking.
I just need to keep walking.
My crippled body can’t run anymore, but I’ve got to keep walking.
Others continue to rush by. Frantic because they’ve never felt the flames.
They aren’t familiar with the burn. The idea of being in hell is novel.
They are novices.
But life hasn’t been kind to me.
These flames are familiar with every curve of my body and they dance around with trained feet.
I’ve been in hell for years.
People continue suggesting I find the light at the end of the tunnel, but that’s near impossible here.
I’m too blinded by the brightness of a vehement flame.
Sizzling with an angry vigor for the lack of gratitude I bestowed on my past life.
It mocks the speed at which I used to be able to run. It laps sardonically at the feet that used to run cheer-inducing speeds without thanks from their owner.
But crowds don’t cheer my name anymore.
I now stand on the sidelines and watch my team play.
I burn alive for the game I used to breath and as I watch each and every game, the deep breaths of oxygen only continue alighting the fire.
There’s no way out it seems, but I will try to keep walking.
Because talking is futile.
Note:
Spinal diseases are crippling mentally and physically. Watching the body you've sculpted for years turn to mush because you can't workout is dilapidating .
The despair and helplessness are unfamiliar feelings, feelings that can't be overcome. Disease is disease and sometimes it can't be stopped. Sometimes, it just becomes a burden to bear.
And sometimes people aren't strong enough.
It's different when careers end after four years of college. An expected end, an anticipated end. But when things you love are taken from you abruptly, before your finished. The pain is exponentially worse.
Exponentially. Worse.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
plants do not require papers that state from where they came
they are caught and pulled by the bite of birds,
seduced by the between-legs of bees,
seized on the legs of the wind and animals by thistles and burrs
and the blessed are pollinated by the hummingbird
I do not know where I came from (really?) (really.)
or where nature and nurture intertwine within me, precarious balance from discipline and my genes
I twist bunches of grass between my fingers, feeling the good in a strain
racked on top of white bones, pushing sheets of freckled skin
out, spreading cancerous aluminums under my arms because
an artificial flower smells better during *** than human sweat,
what a pity, we are unable to reveal with the bursts of Walt Whitman (!) in
our own organic mechanism's ability to produce salt. The ultimate flavor.
I grin. Inhaling deeply while alone and unwashed, Whitman would've been into it.
Maybe I can find someone into it too. Someone who'll read me Henry Miller.
But instead I'll wear expensive perfume. I grin, again. Sardonically.
And I've been told I have a beautiful smile.
I should,
that smile cost blood and five grand for something cosmetic and quirky,
train-tracks over teeth, I now stain yellow with obsolete cigarettes.
I wait in the tropical heat, languishing while I bake, a freckle factory
and tan--adrift--awash with memories recalled by the smell of green
and the fearful hum of bees.
Why did I start smoking again?
I look at the red hummingbird feeder, and wish I could trade
standing still as a hummingbird, I lie and say I cannot wait.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
The rain falls in whispers,
Meanders through the
Cracks in our lives.
The sky claps sardonically
Prophetic, pathetic fallacy
Alive and well.
As time swells and breathes
Solaris flares, coughs and heaves.
Scorched earth, ashen leaves.
The rain is gone but so's
The emerald green.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
He touched our hands
But unconcernedly this famous man
And would not look us in the eye
For fear of contact or what might be worse, connection
And we could hardly blame him, for after all
He had each day been singled out for close inspection
By ones like us, in awe of his celebrity
Circled in the shade of his perfection
Hoping for the star-dust sprinkle of acuity
Or sparkling eyes, admission to his inner cult and clan
He wore blue jeans
And scuffed sneakers as a badge of proof
Of his coolness and unconcern
While we his audience with concealed attention
Enviously eyed his hairy confidence, unconsciously
Imitating in each phrase that low convention
Made small adjustments to our store-bought suits and ties
And nodded several times in bright pretension
Made small amendments to our smiles and lies
Flicked photo-phones in pursuit of custom and routine
He gave a speech
A flippant interview, this famous creature
A well tossed phrase, a rounded cliche
Poured forth like brandy in a glass, convivial
Or apple cider-ed vinegar in pewter mugs
A sardonically French-accented phrase habitual
Well humored, heavy lidded with testosterone
At interlocutor women with the pens and pads
Delivered in a low and purring monotone
For all the world as lovers, each to each
He stretched a smile
A modulated shift of teeth and beard
"Genius? Not I" with deprecation
"My shallow intellect, so poor and so ephemeral"
Delivered in a tone that mocked inclusion
While we assumed an elegance, unintentional
A nonchalance that shields the wide charades
Unmoving in our breathless, but conventional
Genuflection to the the notion that pervades
Our addictive appetite now sated. For a while.
He kissed their cheeks
And stroked their arms, with sensuous ambivalence
But absently, as if he cared so little
In his farewell. 'A bientot' he said and 'Au revoir'
And slipped away amongst the moving Milan crowds
Creative and creator, irredeemably a star
With, in his wake the smiling scriveners staring
At his retreating back in Stark excitement
In the middle of the circling and squaring, at
The alpha-wolfic effigy. The Shepherd and his sheep.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
turns out that the more water you drink
the dryer your mouth is when
a pool of it runs down your throat
leaving your tongue sardonically parched
and writing poetry in classes filled with numbers
doesn't make them any clearer
(however it does make you clearer)
people self-sooth all the time
playing with lips
hair
squeezing arms
clicking pens
and wearing dresses results
in legs sticking to chairs
eating a lot
makes your abs hide
stay away away away
you won't for long
the more water you drink
the more parched you become
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
CLOWNS DYINGFIVE circus clowns dying this year, morning newspapers told their lives, how each one horizontal in a last gesture of hands arranged by an undertaker, shook thousands into convulsions of laughter from behind rouge-red lips and powder-white face.
STEAMBOAT BILLWhen the boilers of the Robert E. Lee exploded, a steamboat winner of many races on the Mississippi went to the bottom of the river and never again saw the wharves of Natchez and New Orleans.
And a legend lives on that two gamblers were blown toward the sky and during their journey laid bets on which of the two would go higher and which would be first to set foot on the turf of the earth again.
FOOT AND MOUTH PLAGUEWhen the mysterious foot and mouth epidemic ravaged the cattle of Illinois, Mrs. Hector Smith wept bitterly over the government killing forty of her soft-eyed Jersey cows; through the newspapers she wept over her loss for millions of readers in the Great Northwest.
SEVENSThe lady who has had seven lawful husbands has written seven years for a famous newspaper telling how to find love and keep it: seven thousand hungry girls in the Mississippi Valley have read the instructions seven years and found neither illicit loves nor lawful husbands.
PROFITEERI who saw ten strong young men die anonymously, I who saw ten old mothers hand over their sons to the nation anonymously, I who saw ten thousand touch the sunlit silver finalities of undistinguished human glory-why do I sneeze sardonically at a bronze drinking fountain named after one who participated in the war vicariously and bought ten farms?
1.9k
I know this sounds like a soliloquy,
But why did bulldust men find me?
God made Ratlotto sardonically,
Life's ***** prizes always find me,
Now 70 years old is the new young,
O God of funster fun,
Is it them or me?
Yes indeed, my soliloquy,
Is it them or doormat me?
Whinging is fun for us,
No one's listening to this fuss,
Dear God of Ratlotto ***** prizes,
Any more masculine surprises?
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
Sardonically ironic, moronically harmonic,
Are beats of emotions unspent.
Overly protective, and somewhat selective,
My shoes on the gravel-laden roads
Of winter are old.
Your silvery hair, neat and bare
Is unfinished. We’re not there yet, you and I.
My name becomes forgotten,
Yesteryears laundry on clotheslines
So hauntingly frigid, and cold they could dance.
The secret of warmth is lost
As the moth dies into the hold of my hands.
Bone-framed windows, with a cryptic message
Surround my palm-tree hair.
My front door is open, hopin’ for a
Short visit, of friends I had not there.
Winter’s approachin’, tree lines are lookin’ in
On the cuckolded dreamers.
Repent.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
Carmen's legs
are pixilated cerulean.
Rubbing beasts
that itch at untouchable
bruises beneath her skin.
Her computer is on.
She rests crossed legs
on its desk.
There's something sticky about her skin.
Carmen's date is calling,
her speakers make a sound
like **** plopping in a toilet.
The webcam blinks
like Sauron's eye.
Carmen has never had
any of the cards
in her hands.
Not a whiff of a queen of hearts
or a jack
of all trades.
It seems she's been slipping for awhile now,
in her black room, colored
by the glow of some
techni-cyclops'
cavernous mouth,
crimson, heart-shaped teeth,
and scythe tongue.
She has never known the war machine
of love,
or the war machine of self-determinism.
Now she does,
her compudate buzzes on-screen.
Tiny sprouted pixels
jump into a constantly
buzzing whole.
He's got a bored face,
and Carmen knows this is the look
of the generation.
Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.
Puts her hands on her lap.
Licks her lips.
She wants to know
what lowered human beings
do when they are restless.
She is seeking something
moreso
philosophical
than
******
"Bored, much?"
Carmen asks sardonically.
He took it literally.
He jumped at attention.
"Oh, no,
now that I've seen you."
"How do these things work?"
"Well, I guess we talk to each other,
and if you like me
then we go from there."
And to Carmen this was reticence,
this was blasphemy.
She had the cards in her hands,
finally.
Carmen's legs are pixilated high cerulean.
Cerulean the color of
a tiger ocean,
****** cakes,
slushies,
a sun-fucked sky,
a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
Dearest, for you I would only commit myself unto not a soul.
Why, you say, would I do that?
Simple, I am cruel.
Yet, not so much I would dare break your heart, for you see that is my goal.
I would love nothing more than to **** you sardonically with unsaid words, as I tip my hat.
Cynicism has never been so sweet while it plays with sarcasm, a duel.
Ah, you say my dear; you do not like my game?
What shall I do when you blatantly refuse to play?
It is such an intriguing, miraculous, subtle shame.
The wind it whispers, through you, sweet nothings, a cliché.
I do not understand why you, my love, must be so coarse.
Perhaps, it is a twisted and torn revenge for a wonderful inferno.
Yet, what have I done to deserve you to take me by force?
Passion, it has never before been so thorough.
If perchance you shall ever come to anything unsaid…
I shall not be in this ever present bed.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
in this happy-deathday, I serve you a bowl of soup, because it’s really you
clay bowl, kidney-beans, vegetables, all thickened with dreary cream;
there is an opened-eyes fish, but definitely can’t cry
they all would float and spread out the smell of awry
the soup has its hot steam, but it is not wandering to ceiling,
it is coming to my neck, ******* my guilty, which I have none
seeing this soup makes me twisting my hair; complicated
I was a loner clown living in the wardrobe—then you gave me one unicycle
you took me out from the pile of clothes
away from cockroach which peeing my head gleefully
til I was starving: yes, I am starving sardonically
I glare the flame of your sincerity which flies away somewhere
I lost my fingers in the soup
while bacteria just sitting cross-legged on the left side
the soup remains sour
and I need something to add—to drag my tasty life again
exactly in this happy-deathday, I reinvite you, my honey
mixing a handful fine-ashes with this soup: because it’s really you
so, how does it taste?
dive deeper and fine how delicious your beyond
no more illness, no more madness, no more confusion of my demeanor
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 1:03 AM UTC
Sunshine
she scatters shimmery splashes
Surrounding Sally's street.
Submerging submissive skies
Swinging slowly
Sluggishing,
Sauntering softly.
Sweeping soft swimming skies south.
Spraying sparkling sprinkles
Shinning splashing springs. Spreading sunshine's shimmery sparkles.
Similarly,
Sing-song sparrows sway, singing sonorously, sky-bound.
Sunshine
She swings, spluttering shinny splashes
Showering sweet solemn shades.
Suntanning skies
Suntanning seas
Suntanning streams
Suntanning species
Surrounding survival space.
Suntanning Sally's supple skin.
Sally stares, squinting.
Sunshine strikes.
Sally stays star-struck. Speechless, sober Sally slides.
Sweetly savouring sunshine's shrewd styles.
Swallowing some sunshine sparkles.
Sunshine,
She swims
Spreading sparkles solemnly.
Sally sees. Sally sighs.
Sally's street saw students scream sweet songs.
Sally's street served sweet shopping sprees. Since suddenly Sally's street screamed silence.
'Stay safe' Sally's screen suggests
Sally strolls sadly
Shaking solemnly.
Sauntering sheepishly,
'staying safe' Sally's shopkeeper's sister salutes, smiling sardonically.
Silence suddenly screams sacred scaries.
Sickness stole Sally's street.
Silence swallowed sweet songs students sang.
Shredding sanity.
Shaming sweet surrounding state.
Sickness seduced stress.
Stress succumbed.
Seducing several sins.
Shattering
Shaming
Stabbing
Slaughtering sanity.
Sad Sally sneaks,
Sitting, sipping snail soup.
Softly sobbing
Sorrowfully singing.
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 4:07 PM UTC
A few hours after the first time someone
looks at you sardonically and says
"Grow up," you feel altogether alone.
Suddenly it becomes one of those days
when the adolescent heart's wilderness
begins eroding. Soon, nobody pays
attention -- not even you -- to distress
in the loosened soil: the dissuaded dreams
you've discarded. Your talent grows listless
and struggles, unacknowledged, till it seems
like the person you used to be and not
you presently, or as another deems.
August 15, 2013
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
Sardonically, lightly, he trips around the argument from last night
The night-time affair-morning despair
Whiskey and gin, liquor scented promises
Still droop over the dawn's proceedings
No wonder he waned quick and rose slow last night
His instincts took form, primal release
Inhibitions lulled by the dull lust quenched senses
Now all come back to the brim
And resurface with surmounting terror in the peak of morning
What might have been found ,
In the quiet moments, between the pauses, sighs and naked glances
Has already been lost
No words escape his,
Or hers-
Save for a kiss
Once drenched with wet lust
That now gathers rust;
Hangs in the heavy silence of their confession
Where none of them utter a word,
Yet the verdict rules:
both guilty.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
Atop the frail ego she mounts her merciless machine gun with which she mows down any speckle of personality that dares flicker amongst her immediate surroundings, until only her presence alone can remain untarnished and unfettered by sadistic, sardonically summarized ridicule, luminous and majestically radiating with solitary supremacy. Oh, the splendorous grandeur of self-indicted superiority, the rush of power and authority from diminishing another's essence with ruthless categorical association, the incomparable ecstasy of using their own positive attributes as their rudimentary flaws. Viscerally volatile, the cocking of the mocking gun's hammer is to be recognized as the phrase "You're just trying to be______". This is critical, for all too well she knows to a certainty that at the most essential level, one is only simply trying to be. And when you attack a person's will to try, their will to be, then you are taking aim at the one vital aspect of their existence which they hold any discernible dominion over: their character. The slaying is heinous and orgasmically fulfilling, for how can the perennial, separatist worship of Self be indulged in among so many of these "others"? But oh how exhausting it must be, the perpetually cyclic nature of the task. How can she ***** a light that doesn't exude from a distant source, but is a brother beam of the source they share? How does she extinguish the reflection of a flame off the water? Like fireflies on summer nights they disappear only to reappear again, somewhere else, reminding her of the irrevocable, irreducible power of being born and reborn again in the new moment. The self-aware ******** audacious enough to love themselves. How much of it do they really think they can withstand?
Reload.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
The steady strumming of steel strings,
Staccato strikes like some salacious swaying streetwalker,
Sorrow-ly sauntering through shit-slung streets.
Smelling of saffron in these places of salvia stinking slums.
Scythe swinging,
Pendulum-slow,
Cycling through souls,
Sickle of Sadness,
Strewn through both Sinners and Saints.
Sights of Scratches seduction,
Satan's satisfaction in slayings of soldiers and civilians,
Simply sumptuous.
Suckered by Senators,
Sold out by simpering, salivating slugs,
Presiding over slaughters with sadistic swagger.
Slovenly suckling upon skulls of the slain...
Sardonically
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 3:00 AM UTC
I told you to read Big Sur
maybe once gone someone will listen
will you hear the sound of the crashing waves
like I did
how Jack did
or just laugh at bloated blackened burned corpse
all maggots, flies and half truths
about the instability of our college foursome
wistful lost thoughts of shirtless circus
too old now to justify
it is never enough or is that just me maybe missing the point
all joy seemingly escaped how i long for simpler times when
we knew each other and didnt have to yell to be heard
but every new wet hole holds the cure, for a minute
does it not
or so you say informing me now of the latest last *** ****
is that enough
does it make you whole
would it make me whole too or translucent like
metaphysical sieve
yet i am losing my great big dharma spectre
and did you ever really have one
or did you just study and play at great booming philosophies
pretending with big yelling words as if louder equals absolute reality
that is how they taught you is it not
whilst sleeping we coined you the new buddha
you tell me as if i am to jump joyfully at this
did you sufficiently whet your beak young buck
as tired heads are tilted back sardonically surveying your scene
are you trying to convince me or yourself honey?
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC
THE CUPBOARD OF THE YESTERDAYS
The War marches
across the map
on little coloured pins
blood red for us &
bright green for them.
The colours faltering
in the candlelight
after the lights
had gone out.
One can still see holes
from the previous War
that pinned men down
so that they
would never move again
they the never returning.
THE CUPBOARD OF THE YESTERDAYS
falling from mother's sleepy hand.
"War is a cruelly destructive thing..."
it both begins & ends.
Men wriggle under
coloured pins & die.
Saki smiles sardonically
from THE TOYS OF PEACE.
I move a pin to where
father maybe is.
I am glad
mother sleeps at last.
In the somewhere of now
a bullet splinters bone
my father falls
the agony of the moment
revealed in the telegram
that will come
a month later.
Father has become
History.
Mother will read her Saki
and cry and try
not to let me see
her cry.
I, a small boy
can't cry.
Death appears
like a fairy story.
What War
awaits me?
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
by Leslie Thomson
One night late after midnight,
A poet sat with pen in hand,
Surrounded by crumpled up paper,
No words came to his command.
In his house there crept a poem,
Full of smarm and beguiling;
Just out of reach of the poet,
It stood there, sardonically smiling.
“Do I elude you, poet?”
Said the poem with mocking tone,
“Do I keep you awake at night,
And won’t ever leave you alone?”
The poet snatched at the poem,
Which stayed outwith his grasp.
He cursed at the elusive creature,
Who laughed with a throaty rasp.
“Poem how did you get in here?
And why won’t you give me peace?”
Asked the poet of the poem,
“I am tired and need release.”
“Why do you evade my clutches?
And keep me awake so very disturbed?
After all, I am a poet;
I am King of the written word.”
“Oh such grand conceit,” mocked the poem,
“To think this is your life to choose.
You are the king of NOTHING;
You are but servant to the muse.”
“You know your mind is not your own,
And words are beyond your control.
You merely scribble what is dictated;
You will write what you are told.”
“It is true,” bemoaned the poet,
“I asked not to be entranced.
To spend time with words evading me,
And leading me in merry dance.”
“Yet I would never want to escape it,
For I love the written word so.
The muse has me in her clutches,
And I never want her to let go.”
“So you tell me poem,” said the poet,
Just what is a poor poet to do,
When I’m distracted day and night,
And haunted by creatures like you?”
“You try too hard at times,” said the poem,
“That is why we lead you on this chase.
Each poem is like a lover;
We must be ready to embrace.”
And the poem slipped into the poet’s clutch,
And only then did he understand,
That he would never be king or master,
The muse is always in command.
His mind at once was inspired
And he continued the work he planned;
Contented and filled with love,
For the poem in his hand.
So when you look for inspiring verse,
To enlighten your life or fulfil,
Remember a poem will not be forced;
It must come of its own free will.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
They say
Only the fittest survive, sardonically.
The whole enchilada’s pressing on my throbbing
Head. Like a drained sponge, dehydrated
I can only hear jeers, see mocks, talk
Nothing with my quivering lips, to the
World that says I am drowning to doom in the
Tough Ocean of the world. But they know not
That I can swim
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
It's been a long time since I ****** with a pen.
Told my lady tonight something I just can't forget:
If you really love something, at least do it on the side.
So welcome me back, O wordsmith, if you would delight.
If not, fade me to alignment of some other greater ill,
fate me worse none, than one thought, but I will still keep a bill
of every broken, ****** up, and beautiful thing that I've been given,
and I'll still want to turn that **** into a living.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:01 AM UTC
hey moon,
you look like my girl.
but you fell, even when a soft not-so-country singer begged,
begged you to stay in the sky.
the only falling i’ll ever do,
it’s for you.
i fell for you,
as fast as a stone,
a jewel thrown into the sea.
glittering along those most beautiful things in the world.
i fell for you,
like rain from the north.
relaxed, slow,
then all at once.
northern downpour sends love,
i’d sing sardonically.
but with love?
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
Despite all outward appearances
It does no one any good to go yammering on
about how sardonically he laughed
and how much he cried
and how many words were spoken the next day
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
she watches the boy
with green eyes
nursing his drink
sadness
meeting peace
when he looks up
a cigarette smoldering
between his middle finger
and the one he uses
when he wants to say
he's okay
god
he slurs
and you're not sure
and he's not sure
if he's talking to his reflection
in the mirror
behind you
or if he's
trying to reach an empty
grey sky
pour him
some more
burning gold
steady his hand
when he raises
the glass
with the imprint
of his silent lips
and smile
without
expecting him to give you one
god
he says again
i'm ******
and you deduce
that he must
be talking to the sky
beyond this ceiling
weighed down
with mood lighting
capturing the shadows
of lovers
becoming friends
and friends becoming lovers
aren't we all?
he smiles
finally
sardonically
wisely
he's given in
to the ignorance
he supposes
you have
let's go home.
the
emptiness
in his weighted touch
at the small of your back
shatters
like the glass
that falls
from his hand
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
Fast forward in time,
To a place that was then,
Transform the mind,
With less than paper penned Zen.
To find a believable center,
That was never quite seen,
No matter the bantered canter,
That pace that was always obscene.
But in the base of your fear,
All aspects are yet forgivable,
How is this an ever lustful portent,
Through prudent eyes so beautiful,
An ever-blending portrait,
But I am no harbinger,
No bringer of the rain,
Nor am I the carpenter,
Or finder of your sane,
I am merely the one left standing,
Standing in sardonically soaked pain,
With very real thoughts,
That I am the one who is insane.
But for love I can't complain....
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC