"savaged" poems
The bonfire was loaded
With exiting tales
Our forerunners legendary
Exploit's these daggers
Cut deep trenches in
Our mindseye we felt
Like the next generation
Of wrath true tales from
A culture of devil worshippers
Yet the tongue's wielding
The blade was non the wiser
Our innate minds chewd
Every word our lives Satan's
Recycling bin two five ten
Deaths and many generations
After we now realised that
We have to cut out the blade
From these forked tongued
Folk tales that whispers filth
Unto the unsuspecting ears
Of our beautiful children
Heroism emenating from
The subculture of criminality
And gangsterism must no
Longer be tolerated it have savaged
The Innocence of young lives
For far too long
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
Since then...I allowed my heart to take whatever form it wanted.
I trusted the process, letting the heart mould itself as it is supposed to.
I had ample faith that the end is far....little did I realise the end is right next to me.
At first, it felt like a bulldozer had savaged my entire being.
Your words left my mind empty, without a way forward.
A deep grave of hate slowly formed...that is where you would end up.
As appetizing the thought...I want nothing to do you.
Even you residing in my den of enemies is not worth it.
I have done a thorough clean up of hoodlums and heartbreakers like you.
You seem so pointless. This anger towards you is pointless.
I look forward to the treasures that will bloom from this. I'm convinced there are treasures.
You have no hold over my dreams and I refuse to allow my heart to slump in your filth.
It was hard, felt like the world was dumped on my shoulders, soul dark and heavy, mouth dry and tears flooding my living room.
But after a serious self-talk....I remembered my worth, remembered you mean nothing to me....you have no hold on my destiny.
The love you spoke of was and is fake. I don't need it.
I don't need that sort of make-believe love which has no truth...
The kind that loves the idea of love...yet despises love itself.
I have no place for thieves and liars....robbers and fakes.
My mind keeps telling me this is for the best and that better days are to come.
I feel sorry for the one you chose, she knows nothing of your hoodlum ways and smooth tongue.
Coated with every lie possible yet disguised with a fake-romance finish.
She knows not of your empty heart...
your inability to be real...
your other side...
your effortless ways of hurting another...
precious time which meant zero to you...
your exhausted yet experienced hands..
your over used 'I will wait for you'....
your conniving ways disguised by caring efforts...
your smile and charm packaged by pure deceit.
She is clueless. And so in love....I shake my head in despair for you dear sister.
I trust you will not endure the heartache I did.
I hope he will see you a better person than I.
I trust he repects you. Genuinely loves you.
She will bear the brunt of your heart smashing ways.
I am done and over the 'could haves & would haves'...
New day brings new opportunity.
Time to listen to my soul and feed my mind.
Re-enjoy the beauty of living and re-mind myself of may chosen path.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Divest me in lowest twang possible
You're a virus ov benevolence
Clod dockets and nightly shrivels
You're Ideology's ravaged havoc
All slates ov mind embellish at one time
Scandalmonger, a repetitive meddler
I am, you are, a beast like endeavor
Two noddy's going rabid
To divulge and disclose; we're savaged
Trek of dearth and surly in combined minds
Withered, wizened, burnished, refined.
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
Perspiration accumulates into salty beads,
Falling into her eyes, eyes that have lost their gleam.
We’ve been trapped like savaged animals for three agonizing nights.
Diminutive apertures in this death box supply minimal light.
The screech of the rails are a bittersweet melody to our ears.
For we only know what these horrific monsters have taught. Fear.
As the door slams open, I’m pried from my wife.
I wonder if this will be the last moment I see her smile.
My people are marked with terror and pain.
I realized were barricaded in with barbed wire chains.
My subverted clothes reek of secretion.
This camp is untrustworthy, raising apprehension.
They claim we are not human.
But I ask, do we not bleed, when we are injured?
Do we not dream blissful thoughts?
Do we not pray to the same God?
The same God that punishes the innocent;
Bringing blithe to those sinners that shed blood.
When we lose our cherished, our loved ones,
Do we not shed tears? Do we not mourn?
No! We must not, for we are not human,
According to what the Nazis see.
We are the innocent, robbed of life.
They are the monsters who roam free.
At least, that’s what I see.
I see men, women, and children stripped of clothing,
Stripped of dignity, stripped of all things humane.
While these barbaric monstrosities make allegations.
Claiming they are purifying society, when they are to blame.
Men lose wives; children lose mothers.
Families are torn apart; sisters lose brothers.
Those of us who survive, work until brittle.
Still we carry on, if our minds are able.
Backs of men are scarred from arduous lashes.
While the sick are trapped in rooms imbued with gases.
My hands are enveloped with calicoes and cuts.
My mind grows weary, I dream an ending abrupt.
I’m crippled with anger, and tears that still drip sore.
My heart crescendos with pain, about to implode.
It’s difficult to refuse the tears when I hear the desolate screams.
I’m trapped in a perpetual nightmare, a ceaseless dream.
Still I carry on in life, for that is the greatest revenge.
The day we feel the kiss of freedom, will be the day we have avenged.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
so if we
stand still
smell the heat
of an enemy's
bullet through our veins
for once
court outcome
of supplanting views
imbibing another's sweat
casuist's bile
scrawled on prison walls
of savaged confines
they salute
their spiel
with the same
toxic hold
as we concoct
world views
venomous elixir
polymorphous maze
shadow of a sphinx
looms clearer
as steps leading
to torn pages
of feted book
uncover dichotomy
of a self split
so that shooting a child
of shunned genes
amounts to nil
for in but a blink
his uniform
arrives home
to stroke the
golden locks
of his only daughter
playing Chopin
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 5:31 AM UTC
Storm savaged fronds
still flower
tucked away
for another day’s
punk spiked blooms
hide inside
a deftly
French braided core.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Convent detour
Covenant deviance
Context raconteur
Sterilized meat threads
Over deviled straight legs
Sharks breath beast head
Maximize....
Left alone - best unsaid
maybe off better spread
way out
O--- Rrr - way dead
Casually
concave bird chest,
shock waved cheap threats,
threadbare leaflets,
Modern day
Old hex
Big space and cavity baking ovens full of clutter extended hand and logic tempest temporarily teetered toward a soft chair and ice cold vanity savaged manually...
Or,
Womanually,
for that matter
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
I am diametrically : opposed to the closure of night shelters,those helping hands that reach out to the disadvantaged,the homeless and those who have been savaged by circumstance.
What cost,the chance of some warmth,conversation,the realisation that all is not lost?
But
'we've gotta picka pocket or two...' Tory blue and Labour too,both are guilty in the dock.
The judgement said, 'we only followed where others led'
We have a way today to pay and finance those in poorer circumstance,we only have to open up our hearts and give a chance to them,the Women and the Men who have hit the harder times.
I've been there,done it,read the book and it is shit,don't let the press steamroller you and make you believe it could never happen,it's true it could be you out there,
and I don't care who you vote for but I don't like you if you close the door on those less fortunate because you've got more.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
An Abandoned School
Young dreams, now scattered fragments on the floor:
A little handle into a corner flung
The disc of sizes never again to fit
A number two pencil into place for a trim
Nor will the made-in-Chicago hopper
Ever again save for the classroom prankster
Sweet-smelling slitherings of cedar shavings
To fling about while Teacher’s at the board.
A new Ticonderoga ****** into
The spinning Scylla and Charybdis blades
Was tested by steel, the dross savaged away,
By turning the handle and grinding away,
And from this grim ordeal emerged The Point,
The perfect point, the adventurous lead…
It’s not really lead, stupid, it’s graphite;
That’s what Teacher said. Don’t you know anything?
Girls are stupid. They play with dolls and stuff.
I’ve got a real cap pistol. I’ll draw it.
You want to see? Look! No, wait, that’s not right;
It’s better this way…Ma’am? Uh…integers?
Arithmetic is stupid. Science is fun.
I’ve got most of the Audubon bird stamps
And I liked it when we cut up the frogs
Old people are so mean. I’ll never be old.
A leaking pipe drips the minutes away
Outside a broken window summer sings
Its songs of freedom as it always has
The desks are gone, the electricity is off
The air smells of education and decay
The classroom now is littered with the past:
A broken crayon, a construction-paper heart,
A silence longing for children’s voices.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
This year we were not alone.
In convoy by car,
and now on a lower path,
past the ruined cottages
with their sagging brickwork
past redemption,
we had formed a line
hard on a hedged path
towards a distant wood.
And all the while a child,
a child we loved and cared for,
savaged anything in reach
with a pair of sticks.
As a delicate rain fell,
the aggressive shout
of wood on wood.
numbed the senses.
There seemed no end
to this wanton litany of
violence and aggressive hurt.
For an hour or more this child,
this child we loved and cared for,
had been denied the living world
of the backlit screen.
Was there really nothing worthy
of attention here? So dull and damp
and dreary were these empty fields,
this persistent woodland.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
it stopped raining after
some long hour had passed
the rain had simply faded like
shawled figure moving through the afterlife
just the signature of presence evaporating into the still air
like the quiet thunder of a doves wings in the evening shadow
a sense of walking the day down through its years
a child at dawn full of promise and wonder
a man full of strife and the heat of passions at noon
an old man gasping by the witching hour
see the day walk its life to the tomb
before the grand spectacle of night has finished
and the very damp ground was littered with leaves
pulled from their high towers and cast down by
the winds strong hand
dirt in clinging clumps decorate the once
vividly clean surface of her lawn chairs
she pecks at the debris with a rapid motion
wipe away the inglorious world with
her chatter is subtle but not unfriendly
as she offers tea
the long hour passes
as we instilled with small conversation watch
the overcast slowly dissipates
like her charm
it is fleeting
she at last asks about your day
with hands folded in her lap like two neat doves
fearfully waiting to fly in panic at such slight provocations
the rain left its signature on my life
both beauty and troubled thoughts gather beneath its wet canopy
all reach life in the waters of the world
all rise from child and fall to tomb
like rain falls back to the earth which birthed it
we all return to the soil
thick and rich loam full of the savaged remains of the fallen
and the seeds of the yet unborn
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
Incendiary asperity:
The world's existentiality
Agony, the Merciless & Mercenary
Scourging me entirely.
The Angst of the Aeons
Are the pedigree, the genealogy, the history borne to emancipate Me as a Vessel of Sanctity
For the valiant souls
Are the souls of transcendence, who revere in remembrance
The Amour of the Yore
My Vestibule Heart
Expands, contracts, being consecrated demands just as
Starry-Wombed the Cosmos, we
Must grow, burgeon through our learning & yearning, deserving & pining for the Promise of Morrow
For we were not formed
To wallow in sorrow.
As I gaze to the heavens
O, ***** and Gomorrah I remember
The Wife of Lot looks back forever: emblazoned as a Petrified December,
Then Fire & Sulphur descended, mankind nearly ended;
What is the lesson?
Of faith we are descendants.
Why do you
Roil my ravaged and brutally savaged soul?
Must bitterness be the wage for days spent having prayed
On my knees, for armistice, by The Empyrean One’s decree?
Though I have fallen,
I shall rise up
For the Fate’s Auric Visage radiates light upon the leaven,
Dost ferment the flesh dominating mine spirit.
Hearkening to
The susurrus of the Sovereign of Songbird’s Sacrosanct Love.
Let the Ethereal Tides of Time
Bathe me in baptismal & divine tribulation, trial
For a writhing while,
Sacrality is a war,
The Primal Instinct’s Immemorial Diminuendo.
Where has fake paradise of the Sylvan Shine
Those forested, emerald Eyes
That glisten in mine dreams gone?
Your visage twas my divine.
Though I am forlorn,
The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love hath sworn
To the Days of Yore
That I shall soar once more.
To my Enfettered Soul,
Excelsior.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
I wake up to blue light
I see it when I close my eyes
frustrated, weighted by comparison
I filter my intensity
condense my personality
I show tongue and teeth but no failures or flaws
I see you in your squares, in all your glow
I want to see the dirt under your fingernails
want you to see me cry, my pores up close, counting eyelashes
Our moments
cascading down a feed that never fulfills
shades changed and tweaked at exposure
I am exposed every day
am I known
I want to see the world by your side
not through your phone
hear the sunsets reflect in your tone
I don't want to lose a bet with myself that I don't stare I don't scroll
lose my evening to a screen
my life to anxiety of how people see me
but I want to be seen
I want to know you beyond your squares
and validation screams content for moments till I review my content
view myself in the eyes of another
a narcissistic shudder
I doubt and judge myself
wishing not to compare not to care
yet impulse is too lovable
addiction and algorithmic luring
habits savaged a daily instinct
to share
to show my life through squares
Jan 10, 2023
Jan 10, 2023 at 3:06 PM UTC
Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted au wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadows
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
I sat
by the window
in the cafe
in the corner
the snow was gone
the wind savaged
people were walking
to the movies
to their cars
some held drinks
some held hands
and I was there
looking through the veil
masked in apathy
sipping from my cup
hoping
it will snow
again
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
A poem from Barry Hodges' "Memories" Sequence by Edna
Some folks think the place where the 'Pilgrim Fathers' landed
On the 4th of July in 1776 with a cha-cha-cha
Is a beautiful place, nice and peaceful
With clapboard churches and houses
And maybe a couple of nice well-kept cemeteries
(dedicated to the dead native Americans,
who caught influenza from the colonists),
But there is another side to the landing place:
Believe me, I know, I have been there
On an interesting cut-price package tour
And I have seen it in all its hideous terror.
I was wandering happily around the historic venue,
Taking a few photos with my new Nikkon X2234A Digital
(And accompanied by my blind mother-in-law, Mrs Ada Sproggs),
When a gang of savage drunken Puritan preachers,
Out of their minds on some kind of tobacco product,
Savaged us and cut off poor old Ada's head
With a reproduction 18th century axe
Which totally ****** up her holiday plans.
O Perfidy! They left her lying there on the beach,
Her brains splattered on the coral strand,
And for what? Well, let me share the horror with you:
They wanted to wear her Marks & Spencers ******
(In spite of the senile stains and skidmarks)
And as a result she spent a couple of weeks
On a mortuary slab (in two separate pieces).
The consequence? I had to pay for a very expensive funeral
And my travel insurance argued about the costs.
Dear God, I will stay in dear old London in the future.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
The scars on the moon were there for all to see,
Wounds cut deeper than any wound should be.
I don't need a lens to see her savaged form,
I see it in the way she looks at me.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
Her, Rising
"But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."
Isaiah 40:31
My feet still, held
gravity pulls, I'm
still on the ground
Your wings addorsed
I stand,
faithful to the
King of the Skies
You are the messenger
of Highest Gods
you represent all
I wish to be
*courage
power
strength*
My face torn, masks
unearthed
ripped & savaged
I'm The Scream
Munch painting
art
alluded expressionism
Oils, pastels, crayon
sink into my skin
as claws rip flesh
away from my bone
I am the Fallen
you are the Rising
I am your Canvas
you are my Artist.
© Sia Jane
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
You go strains of mad when...
...Ambition becomes Eating Your Own Hunger Pains
With savaged pride you feel that all you need to achieve in life
Can be done faster with gold and good courtship
You croon apologies to your ideas and hope they stay.
They don't stay.
You go strains of mad when...
...Demonic intercession is hailed as miracle
You pay your division of a vast tithe into coffers you never see
and watch with shame and awe at a penetrative truth
working noisily behind curtains.
This polls well.
You go strains of mad when...
...Dust and diamonds are sold as combi-packs,
**** comes in boxes of strict six; for illustrative purposes, if you want four you've got to sell or discard two for your reputation.
There's no loyalty card or price-break on bulk.
I'm flat broke.
You go strains of mad when...
...A nobody sketches you with disarming accuracy
Their medium is a third hand snipe relayed with bitter remove
No more the taut nymphette lounged aground, on the rocks
The naked crystal uniform of your debtless regime, gone.
You're a shirt and name-tag girl now.
You go strains of mad when...
...Pockets burst outside the Church yard sale
The Ministry guilts you into buying all the furniture and music
moving it one piece at a time into your life until
suddenly you have a Church to burn
Just in time for winter.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 8:30 AM UTC
They took down the eaves
after all shelter was destroyed.
Left a pay packet
and the desolation of ailments
that sang long after
the contract was done.
Fed the blade across my bicep,
irretrievable fault lines
from everyone I had called a friend.
Every message in a bottle
was a disturbance to still water,
the peace I gathered alone
but could not sustain
with two hands, one mind.
Stole the salt from my hunger,
the youth from my face:
I would not let them take the music.
Filled every cup to feign optimism,
clouded eyes that had seen too much.
Every plateau I took to,
they steeped the gradient,
each flower, they reminded me,
came from death.
They took down the saints of kindness.
Cut each nerve ending
as I slept on broken glass.
Left a pay packet
and a phantom of good will
once I finally loosened the strings,
sailed away at a snail's pace,
my boat savaged by the tempest,
my sails torn and weary,
my flag falls low, at half mast.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins, wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadow
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
Innocence lost
Laughter and play savaged by early death their mother only a framed picture
Her living breath once their perfumed fragrance of grace uncommon air
To this sweetest pair nothing else could compare this life so rare
Morning or evening they drew from this well golden droplets truest love they did spell
Oh grim reaper to all you pay a visit none are safe the smallest hearts easiest to break apart
With ease love’s formidable bastion you did breach unquenchable pain shown by your reach
Daughters four and eight now left dark eyed waifs no one to mend for them who will contend
Motherless thread bare without defense against the icy wind no hope can they find
Faces pale and blue stagger on be brave if I could only give to you what you crave
Swallowed by the black void left senseless no reference point in this seamless sea
Advice worthless only left to stare how can they comprehend a cold grave so bare
Beholding their faces you choke and sputter with worthless words you say be strong
Go in winter to the field and hill in broadest views witness nature subdued in darkest hues
The landscape stark and severe this your mirror from this grand picture your soul grows still
Mother nature God’s handy work from its source you will be lifted and given assurance
Truly the furrow of sorrow runs to unknown depths not so in the everlasting tomorrow
Today tears of silence does eloquently whisper tears to joy a mighty river roaring with mother united in laughter
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:32 PM UTC
tonight
i freed my heart
from those high walls
that got taller
when pain savaged through my veins.
tonight
i confessed my love
to you
and you left me
in silence.
tonight
as
i break down,
these walls of mine
will collapse
and leave me in surrender.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
Sometimes your hands will become anchors and you will try to move and the ground will thank you for keeping still. And you will only notice this because suddenly you'll ask yourself," doesn't the ground feel lonely?"
And the people will spit on the deeply- tarred -equator -feeling bubblegum laced ground. And the people drag their obese- nicotine savaged-righteous feet upon the surface and allow their children to pick at it, mimicking their itchy adolescent nostrils.
The ground, we never realised is a playground for lovers backs and the collector of the suicidal's blood from every 27th floor. But mostly it connects us all.
This is noted from the thoughts of a 17 year old girl who wants to thank the ground for being grey and sometimes brown or green and wants to be forgiven for being the next shade of red on it's beauty.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC