"schoolyards" poems
No one wrote a book
On how to queer up the world.
I’ve been waiting for Volume One
On how to hate your body effectively,
Because all of the brats who spit in my
Cherry eyes won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong
When I say “it doesn’t fit.
It never fits. Will I ever fit?”
Because we’re one binary and the other, and we don’t
Fit quite between, and we’re doomed to be melting
Snowflakes in schoolyards. We’re doomed to tears,
And standing awkwardly between ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ sections.
They opened up their doors to us, those who fit
Comfortably or not so comfortably in either of the two
Slots (like maybe this is a gameshow, and I didn’t pick
The right door?) but they promptly
Threw us out when we tried. And tried again.
And failed and cried and threw our hands in the air like
Children, misguided, in pain, stubbing our toes on the door
That says “real suffering.”
Because our suffering isn’t real to a world that encapsulates it in
So many words as symptoms for a
Common cold.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
Rotating bodies, confusion of sound
Negative imagery holding us down
Social delusion, clearly constructed
Human condition, morals corrupted
Trapped in reaction, lawlessness, war
Dissatisfaction from bowels to core
Devils technology, strategy for
Human mythologies, urban folklore
Sick of psychology, counterfeit cure
Wicked theology robbing the poor
Scheme demonology mislead the pure
Strict and strategically, studying war
Light shown in darkness, image exposed
Few can see through the new emperor's clothes
Lustful this hussle turns humans to hoes
When the blind lead the blind
Just more trouble and woes
It's the mind that they chose
It's designed to stay closed
Standards of jokers, court just a logic
Sick looking cosmics, from schoolyards to college
Primitive man with civilised knowledge
System collapse and he still won't acknowledge
God is the saviour, studies behaviour
Trying to fix the mind that he gave ya
Stiff-necked scholars on prescription meds
Wishing their problems were all in their heads
Moral dilemma, pride is the root
Misguided from youth, heart divided from truth
Egyptians and Grecians, spiritually dead
Imperially led, by the gods in their head
Motives and thoughts
Industrial wealth
Global economy, in for itself
Heart full of madness, covered with kind
Pleasure designed to take over your mind
Furnished in godliness, painted in good
This talented priesthood got real saints misunderstood
While classes in government, set up the veil
And cultivate minds for more mythical tales
Typical Hollywood follies good girl
While vice and corruption take over the world
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
Blind with the wickedness deep in your heart
Modern day wickedness is all you've been taught
Lied to your neighbours, so you get ahead
Modern day trickery is all you've been fed
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
With special thanks to George Ella Lyon
I am from crumbling brick
(red, dusty, smelling of musk).
I am from aluminum siding
and triple-deckers,
tall, strong, unmovable.
Hailing from the city on about seventy hills.
From Grandfathers and photo albums,
cigar ash salad and pinecone wars.
From "use your imagination" and "go play in the street".
I am from a whirlwind of faith,
belief from non-believers.
From schoolyards, playgrounds, and crawlspaces
come these faces, and these memories
are worth more to me, than anything.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 7:02 PM UTC
Boots were all we had in winter,
Wellingtons made of a slice of rubber;
Turned down to show initials,
That bled upon the snow.
Between skin and cold,
Coarse wollen socks,
Sometimes they matched,
They'd criss and cross.
In from the boys' yard,
The slide and frost,
The boots were heaped
In backroom closets.
The sting of chilblains
On sock-soaked feet,
The line of footprints
Led to our seats.
We had one pair at school,
No other cover
Sliding across the oaken floors.
Drying on the radiators,
Our pungent odor,
A synaptic recall,
The unschooled smell
Of winter schoolyards.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
revolutions are coming
for the bored children,
of course, just sit tight.
soon the days will no longer
coalesce together like caterpillar chrysalis
clinging onto branches;
wherever situations harmonise
we’ll make gentle gestures, moving
to and fro until we declare
“this is the medieval economy,
we belong with the hordes of ants.”
But then again
sometimes I find myself in the dark
in schoolyards at night
on the lawn grass gazing up
at towers of concrete rain
I feel the apprehension falling
from the balconies,
and I swallow
the anxious murmurings
of productivity, diligence and attention,
digest their nutrients
and spit them on cocoons
in metamorphosis.
Though, I hope the spit does not spoil the butterfly.
I mean, I would not be surprised
if I caught a tummy bug
and it killed the whole world.
still,
rhetorical coincidences ceaselessly
resort into syllogisms,
essays babble incoherent thoughts,
cranes construct rows of identical houses,
times moves forward and backward
to save light, it consumes time
in my mind. oh revolving
prisms,
there will come a tiny time,
emerging, bit by bit, in unison;
there will be gentler things
to caress the subtle
skins of existence,
one by one, all at once,
momentarily again and again.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
I could say
That without you in the world
Silence would fall on the whole planet
All at once
Like a blanket of snow
Like a curtain on a lit stage
And everyone would become a silent film-
Playgrounds
Board meetings
Lovers
And
Crowded trains
People standing puzzled,
Voices stolen by a universe
Holding its breath.
I could say that the color would leech from everything-
Traffic lights and flowering trees and oceans
Bland and gray and flat,
Husks of beauty.
I could say that all the strings on all the violins in every orchestra
Would snap at once
And hang limp
Like bits of litter caught on tree limbs.
I could say that
Every song would be wiped from every page
And every long fingered pianist
Would freeze at his work
Hands shaking
Suddenly unable to remember
What his own mind sounds like
And unable to cry out
In dismay.
I could say that the stars would slide like tears down the face of the sky,
That the old gods would turn in their graves,
That the roar of the world would come to a halt
So suddenly and so completely
That every person in it would stop and stare upward
A billion faces all lit with fear confusion and grief
A billion voices
Bitten off like unwary confessions.
I could say all of that,
But I won’t.
Because after all,
It would only feel that way
For those who knew you,
Wouldn’t it?
For everyone else, the sun would rise like always
The wind would whisper
Time would march on
As it always has.
Colors would remain firmly in place
Just as beautiful
As any other day.
Music would swell in subway cars and concert halls and little houses.
Children would laugh and shout in schoolyards
Deals would be struck, fortunes would be made
Vows would be said
And bows would be taken to thunderous applause.
Choirs would sing
And raucous men in bars would shout at tv screens.
People would swarm blithely through airports and streets and museums
Murmuring, laughing.
And somehow...
Somehow that is so much worse
Because none of them would know
That silence should have fallen
And didn’t.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 3:40 AM UTC
he remembers your touch but not your face
maybe if you hold on a little tighter he'll respond with a smile
he's archaic and you're a battlefield
you were never meant to touch in the first place
acute lines connecting against the laws of science
he's a geometry problem, roughness against blood vessels
his hips jut out from under his shirt
you press your thumbs against them and breathe
try not to ***** yourself on his ribcage
he'll kiss you like he means it but his eyes will cloud when you look into them
he doesn't always recognise your voice
you kiss him anyway you hold him close like maybe if your hearts beat in time for long enough he'll start to feel it
the first time he looks at you with eyes that belong to him you think your lungs might close up
he sketches you, fingers trailing like stardust over skin and jutting bone
you used to dig a knife into the palm of your hand just to make sure you would bleed like everybody else
he used to dig a knife into the upper-left side of his chest just to make sure he was really human
you cradle your scars together
LIVEDIELIVEREPEAT
the pain's more bearable with him
you hold him when he has nightmares and he holds you when you can't take living
(all that you used to know is gone;
you're all each other has left
survivors of a lost age)
life is a series of compromises
you've already made enough for one lifetime
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Legions of the ******
black horse racing 'cross the borderlands
flaming hooves
burnin hot
well, are you comin or not
with the Legions of the ******
see the lovely maidens
with children in hand
the junk crazed schoolyards
(by whose plan?)
the spirit warriors
takin a stand
eyes from the mountains
and then
a voice cryin out
"where are the men?"
Legions of the ******
black horse racing 'cross the borderlands
flaming hooves
burnin hot
well, are you comin or not
with the Legions of the ******
..............and then
voices cryin out
"where are the men
where are the men
where are the men"
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 4:57 PM UTC
I once wished to end together,
I wanted you so close and dear,
I wanted you like bees in heather,
How curious, strange to end familiars.
We grew in fondness, each landed eye,
O seasons turned through sun and chill,
Grew up together, teased and pried,
In the village schoolyards upon a hill.
And lately I have come to love you,
Greatly I have felt youths quickening,
Wishing for us to start as lovers true,
But playgrounds promise no beginnings.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
When snow starts falling in Canada We know winter games shall begin.
Do we just sit around fireplaces?
No, that would be a sin. Snowball fights daily in our schoolyards,
Till the bell calls them in. Rosie red cheeks on children,
Mittens with scarf’s and hats, Snowmen in every front yard,
Put away are the bats. Indoors a haven for cats.
Ski’s out and waxed, Skates sharp as knives,
Skating rinks are full Of children,
husband, wives. Tobogganing so exiting,
Curling extremely fun, Hockey,
number one. Cold feet, Hot chocolate.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
i.
i'm twelve years old the first time my life ever ends. the streamers and balloons hung up in the hall are gaudy and reminiscent of a garbage truck. graduation goes by faster than any of the hour-long rehearsals. perhaps it's my imagination, but the audience blurs out before my eyes when they hand me my makeshift diploma and i bow a last farewell.
basement one.
doors opening.
ii.
thirteen is a big deal. god is found in the depths of an abandoned foxhole and lost to the fading glamour of megachurches, pseudo-friendships, pomp and circumstance. maybe some goodbyes are for the better. it's a hard lesson to learn.
level one.
doors opening.
iii.
i'm fourteen and i haven't seen the world yet, raw and naive and soft to the touch. i open the newspaper in the morning, hoary in my hands, and i discover that some names don't make the front page until they're in lieu of an obituary. i never read the newspaper again.
level two.
doors opening.
iv.
when are you closer to twenty than you are to ten? it's competition season when the stroke occurs in a land abroad i know nothing about. i visit every day after school. these are not all lies: sometimes it's harder to see uv drips and nurses' charts than a gravestone.
level three.
doors opening.
v.
sweet sixteen is anything but. the previous statement is a flagrant lie- but then it has always been easier to say goodbye to the bitter and the reviled, than all we have ever known and loved. the walls of hospitals, of schoolyards, of departure halls, have heard the sincerest au revoirs, spilling summer-stained from unpainted lips and falling into shaking hands.
level four.
doors closing.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
sticky kisses for the missus just
to prove that i'm no wuss
and if it tastes good enough for you
it's good enough for me too.
don't you miss the blissful ignorance
chinese whispers and rumours
written on the tarmac in chalk
for the wind to pick up
and carry on to other schoolyards
eat lots of pineapple, it'll make you taste good.
did she eat ten a penny aniseed sweets for me?
she seeps liquid liquorice
that binds my teeth in a bittersweet grimace
stretching from ear to ear. she hates the taste
and i hate to share my just desserts.
innocence is a burden that burns
like empty lungs, and no breathing in
again until i get what i want,
bad enough to make the children
want to **** themselves. when they want
sticky kisses before bedtime.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 3:23 AM UTC
I once wished to end together,
I wanted you so close and dear,
I wanted you like bees in heather,
How curious, strange to end familiars.
We grew in fondness, each landed eye,
O seasons turned through sun and chill,
Grew up together, teased and pried,
In the village schoolyards upon a hill.
And lately I have come to love you,
Greatly I have felt youths quickening,
Wishing for us to start as lovers true,
But playgrounds promise no beginnings.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
When the war fell, it fell with no warning.
Machine gun fire cut through the schoolyards
and the shopping malls, the graveyards
filling up like the churches.
When the bombs fell, they burnt out the buildings
and the shells of old homes stood like jagged
testaments toward human fallibility.
Centuries of labor reduced to dust.
When the silence fell, it was full and complete
like a thick fog atop the cityscape.
The world, a museum of history,
burnt and scarred, forever in its silent fury.
When the war fell, it fell with no warning.
I took you in my arms and locked the window,
turning into you while the night fell around us,
waiting out the end of existence.
When the world awoke, like a sigh,
we were there, breathing it in.
The smoke and the dust and the ash
bursting in our lungs, sweet scented survival.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Gentle
(
•
)
Gentle
•
Ah the broken child
Creeping Weeping
Seeing into the **********
Bedroom morning
The cold hard breakfast stares
The schoolyards fascist playings
The razor sharp with its
Semi - celestial paintings
Oh deaf ears Blinded eyes!
Still
Do not mourn this ruptured toy
Neither sister brother
Father Mother
AFTER THE FIRST DEATH THERE IS NO OTHER
/////
We of the painted smiley face !
We of the ******* I LOVE YOU LIE
The child seeks our poisoned dreams
Most damning ties
The eternal painless ( hence joyless ) life
Do not mourn the false sense of Forever
AFTER THE FIRST DEATH THERE IS NO OTHER
////
Weep for more substantial things
The death of hope
The rapine wars of lust and greed
Pass by this child on ****** sheets
This corpse - like semblance of our divinity
Perhaps you'll see a road that you must follow farther
AFTER THE FIRST DEATH THERE IS NO OTHER
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
When the springtime
drank the winter snow
And brought back
the petals and the leaves
The fields were calling
for those waking
Or those chasing
what had disappeared
But when the blossoms fell
and the wells ran dry
And the sun’s roar
chased away the night
We left behind
when we were young
The schoolyards
and the bells
We were loose
upon the lakes
And fields we
made our own
It was our time
That was our time
Those summer days
And now the winter
is taking everything
That survived the fall
I feel it taking me away
But I hold on to summer days
That was our time
it was our time
I’ll be there once again
It was our time
that was our time
Running loose
upon the fields
Of summer days
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Men are falling.
Did you know it?
They just tumble and plop
Into mounds of men
On floors in schoolyards,
In kitchens and beaches.
Beached whales some of them are.
White.
They’re piling up on every surface.
In spirals they fall
From huge heights.
Even from heaven
These men fall
Down to the depths
Inside each of us.
Think of your own depths.
How deep do you go?
Go there.
How far down does the light begin to fade?
Where does it grow dark?
Imagine a dim motel and you’re a child.
“Mom,” you say,
“Mom, where are we?”
“In a mo’ tail, child.”
And in your mind you’re in
The tail of a mouse,
Half wondering if you’ve left anything at home.
You always do
Leave something
Behind.
And in an instant you’re reminded of all the men that fell.
It’s your time to help them.
To run in,
To dive in after them.
“You’re falling in to fast,” your mom tells you
As you gasp for a little tungsten light.
Emblazoned eyes stare on.
Blind gazes catch *****
Of men injecting dust,
With futile infectious lusts.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
since you left
i've worn my trauma like it's a trophy
you can see my anxiety in my freckles
the ptsd in the way i dance
and the bipolar in everything i do
it's coming home to a handfull of pills
instead of you
it's what tears me down becoming a punchline
to a stupid joke on schoolyards
and don't get me started on what i've done
to self medicate
i'm not asking you to come back
in fact, i don't want you to
because the pain is a part of me,
at times it's all of me,
but because of you,
i am a survivor.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Love destroys what *** begins,
as playgrounds and schoolyards
hide the true nature of the King
Innocence bleeding,
within the deep warm incision
of a preternatural beginning
(West Philadelphia: October, 1972)
From 'An Anthology Of Perception' Vol. #1

Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
It is the process of revealing oneself through which one can understand their infirmities and their powerless nature. Successful people will always build their lives around others. Because they are people who want to hear what they want to hear. But, being rich doesn't mean you automatically subjugate yourselves to the weaker philosophy and opinion of the crowd.
But, when we realize that we are different from the rest, therein lies our uniformity. In that clarity, you can see that your life is a search for individual truth. What is being unique?
Instead of a truth that is of cosmic proportions, we find ourselves in an abyss.
A child akin to his parents will think of how he can model himself. Notwithstanding, the parentage of a child becomes a vital factor in the moral upbringing of children. But, a child should be allowed to lead a life among the forests, oceans, and leaves rustling languidly. Thus, pursuing an education in the caprice of the divine and the grace of Earth.
That grace is not available in strictness of the cane, but it flows in the wings of birds.
Instead of forcing conformity on an infant, the perfect mother should propose that a child chose a path. They will react to the stimuli present in schoolyards, playgrounds, social gatherings. Later, a child explores a form of conscious intelligence. Here are places where children feel pressured to excel and become self-aware. But, that self-awareness comes from how close a child is to his parents. A child will never model his behavior to his parents unless he loves one of them more than the other. In other words, he respects one parent the more. It is enough for his subconscious to devise a manner in which he finds a partner similar to the parent he loves. But, the sole burden of pleasing the parent he respects forces him to model himself to the parent he respects.
In some ways, the partner a man chooses is someone he can never be. Free in the ways of the world, one with nature. In short, a child at heart.
This individual is made up of his prejudices, influences, and his little world of interests. Yet, instead of following the footsteps of the kinder parent, he replicates the behavior of the domineering figure of the house. A child's mind is made up from the moment he is born.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
.
life ?
death ?
what does it all mean now ?
;;
Now that we people don't seem to care anymore
•
The noble
The pure
//
?(?)?
;;
In the high mountains
The earth is failing
//
In the deep waters
What is breeding ?
)(
In the heart of man
Devils and demons
;;
Children crying in the schoolyards
;;
Noble
Pure
•
We look for each other
But no one is here
//
In the silence
Truth awaits
But can truth still free us ?
""
Life ?
Death ?
::
Seeking Value
)(
Somewhere
.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC