"screamers" poems
Rachel’s hair, black as ink,
splatters my blank skin.
It’s a rewrite for bad readers,
a stroll for quick-to screamers,
a phone call at 3 a.m., and
a sickening high that just won’t end.
Rachel’s teeth, sharp/jagged like littered glass shards,
dig into my aged, faintly seasoned flesh.
It’s a feast for lazy vultures,
an eyesore for devout heathens,
a dusty revolver on a Sunday, and
a lone drunk at a flybuzz wedding.
Rachel’s soul, battering ram/sputtering mad,
dilutes toxic mine, leaves only the rind.
It’s a constant reminder for dangerous nostalgia,
a blanket smoldering in fire within winter-without-end,
a handshake and a heart attack for closest kin,
an elevation, a joyous atomic cloud, and
a sky crying elative confetti tears of future me.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
How strange it must be,
to live in the countryside -
to fall asleep to the sound of crickets under your window,
and bullfrogs croaking in the creek.
So far from the sirens -
the Los Angeles Screamers -
tearing through the floodlit nights,
picking us off, one at a time,
huddled in our houses,
alone, together.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing,
My eyes are square moon bases, nonagonal PVC behind them
Accounting for a dialing rhythm of split modular beeps,
Air-packed and dew drop sized, but only held by felt feelings.
They pipe in.
The Opener Screamers
Open a pal, a pulsing pill of pep talks and peptides,
And scream my way into tomorrow, a sleepy cheetah with anxious acid reflux.
My right brain does a sit up.
My left brain twists, and secanol comes flowing.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
disconnected daydreamer,
party lights and streamers,
blockin' out the screamers,
grasping onto my femur.
i'm really real,
still alive & kickin'
not eatin' chicken
i'm strong as steel.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
We live in a world of talkers,
Of shouters, of debaters, of know it alls.
Listening is a long extinct creature,
Unheard of by a species that has devolved to simply wait their turn to talk.
Conversations no longer flow like rivers,
Instead they are puddles:
Started, then abandoned to become bone dry.
We live in a world of talkers,
All raising their volume to be heard,
Shouting that their opinions are fact.
No being is exempt from the epidemic,
The infectious itch to crank the volume dial right
And scream that the other talkers are wrong.
We live in a world of talkers,
Of screamers, of bigots, of smart alecs
In a universe not made for this noise.
The voices get louder, the status updates get longer, the protests get deadlier.
We live in a world of talkers
And soon we will live in a world of mutes.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Dreams dance under the glare of the sun’s moodiness
Blood vanishes from the veins of once dead men
Medals of tarnish float along a river of bedridden nightmares
Soft drinks pierce the heart ache of an ancient lover
Coffee mugs litter the world’s tainted breath
Cake mix splatters the wall of any old soul’s happy day
Laundry baskets of forbidden desires clutter my mind
Australian needs rise up and revolt against the will
Steadfast now, the winds have changed and blow upon
new dreams from the shorelines of an imagination.
Hindrances break even with the mob, blowing jobs in the faces
of masked gods under none.
From what does the truth set you free?
And what sets you free from love?
Cerulean dreams dart like angels to the ball
Woe to the marching band stuck at the disco
Tripping on bumps in the sidewalks as if the flaws
were meant to convey the illusion of perfection.
Bumping into dreams while on day trips to a place legendary
among the star screamers of yesterday.
Played with market chiefs in the fishy dreams of villains
Heroes rise from the ashes of who they wish they could really be
Hunger penetrates the enigma in which livestock consume the diet
of better days and healthier people.
Strangers.
Blanket thieves.
Snuggling with the poverty of heart stricken saps who ****
the life out of the tear duct orifice between theses beautiful lashes of grace.
Come with me,
let’s escape to a world of ours.
My imagination has room for
Two.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
My llama went out to the cleaners
ya know, I shoulda used Stanley Steemer
she came back real clean
or was it a dream?
who knew that llama's were screamers?
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.
Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.
So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.
I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.
I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.
Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.
A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now
Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.
Love is the stuff dreams are made of.
And through you..
Im through.
Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.
I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head
I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.
You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.
I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The strips of flesh and ribbons of guts.
All the residual chunks of the screamers;
All the bits of the ******** and *****
They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The memories of all that they said.
They crushed all the hopes of the dreamers,
So who cares that they ended up dead?
They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The lingering shreds of remorse.
A legacy built atop skulls, ribs, and femurs;
A mission of evil I've come to enforce.
I, like mankind, have lost all control.
I now side with the sinners and schemers.
You ask of the tattered remains of my soul?
Why, they flap in the breeze just like streamers.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
To the outcasts, the freaks
To the silent ones, the unheard
To the criers, the broken
To the heartless, the damaged
To the screamers, the closed off
To the drowners, the dying
To the breathers, the living
To the strong, the weak
To the flimsy, the fragile
To the suicidal, the struggling
To the raging, the bitter
To the sad, the lonely
To the misunderstood, the confused
To the 'why don't you talk,' the 'why don't you shut up?'
To the 'it's all in your head,' the 'It's not important enough'
To the 'stop acting,' the 'stop faking'
To the 'stop being so dramatic,' the 'there are people worse off than you'
To the 'shut up,' the 'you're making no sense'
To the 'I don't understand,' the 'nobody feels this way'
To the 'I can't help you,' the 'get over it'
To the 'you're weird,' the 'this isn't normal'
To the 'go away,' the 'nobody wants you here'
To the 'you break everything you touch,' the 'just die already'
To the 'broken ones,' the 'freaks'
To everyone, to always
To whatever you do, whatever you say
To everything, to everyday
You are not alone.
~ hk
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
You saw a closed door,
I saw a building that wore on its skin a way to go outwards,a way to blow in and let me begin to show you that a,
blue is but colouring, we mix it in dreams
greens,reds and yellows that float upon beds freshly made, where everything laid down is painted a dull brown,but here's a surprise,
pull out the dyes from the eyes that see closed doors and open your mind to the buildings that once wore,
once swore,
one more spell in bedlam,
well,the madman and comic books,given comic looks by quizzical people who can't understand, will stand by the opera house with a cap in his hand and beg programmes from top hats and mink wraps,
and morning slaps me in the face as if the lady had a place to test my theories when I'm weary.
Back in bedlam the corridors with more than doors that hold the screamers,dream of leafy suburb lanes,
suspecting that they're not the same as pisspot crazies,daisy chain the locking gates,automatically prostrate and the man with pentothal will come,we'll tell it all,of how the colours came to call,and we sat down to tea with ice cream cakes and made by me I'll have them know,they always do.
They will go and leave me in another hallway filled with evening primrose blue but smelling antiseptic red which ties me back into the bed.
Tomorrow ,
what the building wore will definitely be a door and nothing more,
I'm getting out of bedlam soon,no more laughing at the moon or seeing things that are not there,
In the end we all turn square and block out dreams,inferrring that, the world's not round
it's bleedin' flat.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
The stakes are higher than some of my
worst friends on herbal fire
because every time I toss a buck to
Luck,
that homeward bound ****
who sits outside my door
and whistles at golden ******
I lose even more
of my soul
from which I shovel the monetary coal
that stokes my furnace
and keeps me humble,
earnest,
and whole.
I want to let the ***** man in
so I can hear him confess his sin
and let him attempt to begin
a transformation
into a muse
that I can use
to write my information.
I wish I could write
of ice cube light
but all that comes to wish me good night
are the kisses of blurred sight
pecked by the fright
born of hesitant insight.
A kiss.
A kiss.
More so a bite.
Beggar,I beg of you
if you are true;
Whisper to my hands
the plans
you can have them to do.
Because I'm tired
of being a liar
who screams on soap mausoleums
and puts exhibits in false museums
of how his heart
goes into his art
but all he really adds is the ****
part of the flesh
stolen from the mouth of Descartes.
Were that Luck were behind
every inky tittle and line
I wouldn't have to waste all this time
trying to weave together this rhyme.
I want to be my muse.
For now, though,
she'll have to do.
V^V^V^V^V^V^V
She knows better than I.
She does, she does, she does.
She knows better than I.
And she,
my muse,
makes me want to die.
She does, she does, she does.
I give her my eye and
never
ever
does she return my sky-blue eye.
"You don't even want it!"
I cry.
I cry with my one eye.
Screaming and tears.
Screaming tears.
Tears scream, you know.
I like to put on little shows
with my lil' screamers
and charge love
and harlequin femurs.
Exchange for tickets.
Exchange for a show.
And I cry like a proper ringleader.
There's no business like show business.
There's no business I know.
A quality show
Would be my muse killing me slow.
Maybe with her poetry.
Maybe with her face.
Maybe with a knife
keeping sickly pace
with the beating
of the heart
of a headcase.
Or maybe with outer space
like rumors of second base
with black lace
cast off
with grace.
I want the world out of my headspace.
There's no room for her there.
She knows she can fit.
She does, she does, she does.
But I keep forgetting.
I do, I do, I do.
I hope she kills me slowly
before I do,
I do, I do.
I do.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
In silence I only hear my thoughts
The overcrowding of voices in my brain
The overwhelming rush of blood in my veins
I breathe deep
In silence I only hear your voice
Echoing in my head
The overcrowding feelings
Coat my heart in cement
And in the darkness I only see your memory
A faint light tethered to my heart
Beating in accordance to yours
Which used to beat alongside mine
And we were dreamers in the night
With wide ambitions and future sight
And now we're silent screamers
We're locked away
With so many opinions
and so much to say
yet my mouth is sewed shut
By the voices that play on repeat inside my head
they play and play and play and...
In the silence all I hear is you
In the silence which has become so loud
I feel lost inside this imaginary crowd
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
There were tigers, bears and elephants,
The day that the circus came,
And dwarves and clowns in our tiny town
It never would be the same.
The people stared as it passed on by
It was like a grand parade,
If only we’d known what was going down,
It was time to be afraid.
The tent went up in the open field
Behind old Barney’s store,
And lines of booths for the local youths
At a penny or so a draw,
While lines of coloured bulbs lit up
Where the fairground rides were set,
And musical hurdy-gurdies sounded
Just like a passing jet.
Then girls in flimsy bikinis flew
Up and under the top,
A giant net underneath them, yet
In case that one might drop.
The Ringmaster with his hat and whip
And his giant, curled moustache,
Kept all of the ******** riders straight
In line, and under his lash.
The elephants were herded in
And stood on their great hind legs,
Trumpeting sighs, and rolling their eyes,
Just like a dog that begs.
The clowns raced in and disrupted all
Clambering over the seats,
And roused the crowd, that laughed out loud
At all their ridiculous feats.
At ten, the tent had begun to whirl
And the audience went still,
As hounds had bounded in and around,
The Hounds of the Baskervilles.
A massive bell had begun to chime
The Ringmaster’s coat turned black,
He grew in size right before their eyes
And some had a heart attack.
He grew two horns on top of his head
That made him look like a goat,
And then a shimmering tail of dread
Slid out, from under his coat.
‘You pays yer money and takes yer choice,’
His voice boomed out in a bit,
The prayers prayed and the screamers screamed
As the floor sank into a pit.
The first three rows fell into the pit,
The rest of us stood and cowered,
While he just floated and cracked his whip
Over his pit of power.
And flames shot up from the pit below
To the chime of the Black Mass Bell,
We knew we stood at that terrible hour
By the Seventh Circle of Hell.
Our lips were sealed, and I risk my soul
And any future of grace,
By telling you all just what went down
In this, now devilish place.
You’ll see the field behind Barney’s store
Lies burnt, still black with their blood,
Where once the Devil’s own circus came
And set up in our neighbourhood.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
Take your concerns, sweet mother
weave them with your hatred,
your bitter contempt of youth
Take your forced confessions
like poison from my Judas tongue
while you sigh in eager disappointment
at the damage done long before.
I was not made in your image
this was not my crime to answer
I was the cuckoo in the nest
a child of a wayward child,
given in hope of more
in many ways gaining less
Affection in monetary value
a room full of treasures
to hide my empty heart
loveless and longing
for a connection with something other than your stinging palm
My rebellion, taken in personal tones
was against my existence, not yours
Unwanted, unloveable girl
my constant internal monologue
screaming above the screamers
that made my speakers bleed.
my need for you has not diminished
nor will my love for you fade
there is no understanding
for the misunderstood it seems
we remain locked in battle
bathed in tears, questioning love
your scars deep, my gratitude deeper.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
The giver of joy to his audience
The healer of man's sorrow
As he judges, the flowers smile
The Dancer is a killer of nightmares.
The hilarious one of every moment.
The people's man every second
He gives light like the sun
The Dancer is man's happiness
The party-goers yearn for Fridays
The Disc jockey fulfils the dancer's dream
Mesmerising the happy screamers
The bottles keep on getting dry.
The dream of the Dancer is joy
The sight of him radiates peace.
His shoes are gold mines.
Who can pay the fee of the Dancer?
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 12:47 PM UTC
they stormed out the corners, the screamers, the signs,
all black. but no longer occult.
i tried to walk past all the mourners in lines,
but my heart was my pillar of salt.
can heaven forgive me that i could not come?
please carry my soul to your flame!
i’ll tend to my garden and pray you reach home —
but i know that it isn’t the same.
though clouds round you gather, each knight noble stands;
the rain is the least of the cost.
o sable crusaders, my hand in your hands,
i will march with the ghosts of the lost.
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 11:16 AM UTC
When the monster realized no one would respond
to its cries for help, it decided to go and help anyone
who needed it late at night;
self-destructing souls without bright enough lighthouses
to guide help to their half-rotten ports,
ghosts trying to breathe properly under
muffled pain.
The monster’s help was always taken as an attack to
someone’s childhood, so when parents finally convinced
their youngsters that monsters do not exist,
the possible relief of any unresponded pain
was immediately vanished too.
The monster of course never stopped trying,
because the monster knew
and the monster had seen those lighthouses
and their little broken lamps.
But every time it laid its little hurt hand to reassure
someone everything would be alright,
however fake that promise was,
the self-destructing soul would turn its back to the monster,
the ghost would stop trying to listen.
The monster then would start talking to aching limbs
and the limbs would explain why stars keep falling
and why planets can just as easily turn to black holes,
but the monster always preferred the rare occasions of happy story-telling,
where stars and planets always shined bright
and didn’t feel the need to bear wishes on their backs
just to have a small moment of awareness by the world.
Or maybe it was an act of hopelessness,
and that was their last resort.
You see, “Quick, make a wish!”,
and no one ever thinks of making a wish
to save the falling star.
Meteor showers are massive suicides,
the monster thinks to itself,
before returning under the bed.
Tomorrow night, it’s the wardrobe’s turn.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
*just as i am about to die
your voice
frees me from the shame
of love
of ******* to the dream
the dreamer awaits ironic twists of fate
upon the upper decks of the plane
respect this open drain
and twirl into her arms
drown in her charms
ride the ferry to the starry grave
paddle harder
insert the coins into eye sockets
your majesty
your beauty is beyond
so please forgive her
you can do it now
her messes are her own affair
your love is ever after
every moment
growing
becoming wise means hiding nothing
the secret songs suggesting
miles of lavender grown into the sky
from weedy eyebrows
upper lips
lower lips
chins, chests and *******
covered with sarsaparilla and sage
her mage, her magi
her magic was surreal
feather and down upon her gown grown in thymeʼs rage
thymeʼs orphans
ophelia
lemon verbena
underwear made from creamsicles and cotton
cashmere beauty blossoms
hop on this jumbled vehicle
busloads of people
teachers and dreamers
fresh eyed screamers
unbelievable pairs of pretty people
invincible
envision vision fleeting and fair
her throne, her bones, and her hair
formed into triangles forever
your sweater, your dresses, and your couches made of leather
into this page i wrote and wrote and gave my blood for nothing*
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
they say if it hurts
you know youre alive
but the pain in my life
is why i want to die
the screamers have time
its the silent that are nearest demise
so im being quiet
in the hope that theyre right
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
It was in my mother’s father’s final days when Beckham curled it in against Greece
It should have been wrapped up months or at least minutes prior
But for the English
Football is a beautiful form of torture
Some relief in the dark and painful last of his days
It may sound dramatic from the outside
But from the inside
When you’re in on the secret
Football has always been the beautiful game for a reason
And fate was sealed that day
The infamous Zidane headbutt
It came at a time when I was realising people aren’t perfect and heroes are human
For me, not a disgrace, but a lesson
The world’s greatest are also flawed
Lampard 2010 World Cup
It was over the line
I know it
You know it
But the greatest journeys all have their ups and downs
Their misfortunes and their injustices
Our time is nigh
It’s coming home
The psychopathic work ethic of Ronaldo
The glue on the boots of Messi
The precision of the Pirlo pass
The ‘Why always me?’
The ‘You’ll never walk alone’
The wins, the losses
The joy, the heartbreak
The frustration of supporting a yo-yo that never goes all the way up
An ode to my forever unmentioned Plymouth Argyle
The screamers, the blunders
From Thierry to Titus Bramble
Alonso to Okocha
The once-club-record-signing whose name now evades you
The heroes, the villains
The naive dream that maybe one day you’ll make it
And the hope that maybe this will be our year
The diving, the referees, the relegations, the failure
The 4-0 thrashings by the rivals, the penalties and quarter finals
I don’t know why I do it to myself
But I know that I wouldn’t have it any other way
This is the beautiful game
This is football
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
You’re with him again,
And I’m still here,
No-one has said a word yet.
Across the room I move,
So I am closer but further away
If anything happens,
I don’t want to see.
Inside I want to smash glass across my hands and yours
Just so I can kiss it better for us both
He’s here again
And I want to leave
You know I’m scared as you sense it
He is a shark, as are you
Rain patters, I patter
Slowly
Don’t look at me
I’m doing this for you, you know
I’m doing this for you
Rough hands make there way to my throat
I don’t want to feel anything anymore
I whisper, please don’t touch me
I whisper, I’d rather die
You scream.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:55 AM UTC
Two screaming cats
Claw their way
Up the high road,
Wild eyes flashing
WHITE AND RED
WHITE and RED
white and Red
white and red
whitenred
whitenred
red
red
red....
Glad I am home,
I sigh a prayer
In wondering
What roadkill
Waits to feed
Incessant screamers
Southward streaming terror.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
In this free fall
floating around me
is nothing but what has been
and what could be.
A thousand words I never said
are enticing whispers in my ear.
Too many screamers crying,
“You are worthless!”
But my soul bears a strong shield.
They can’t get to my heart anymore;
I know my worth.
The lies swirl in the mist around me,
a cloudy gaze of nevermore.
And I’m just comfortable in this free fall
to a place I don’t know.
So wherever this takes me,
can it please be adventurous?
I need some of that in my life,
a spontaneous mix of alive and thrilling.
So, when I land,
let’s just run.
Never stop and don’t look back
unless I run head on to past.
What am I supposed to face right now?
Where are you taking me?
I ache for the moment I land on two feet
and dash to the day of knowledge.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC