"screeches" poems
When clocks strike twelve and trainings end
— lurk not, they say, in school at night.
Age-old stories tell of how there’re
things that throng in fluorescent light.
In toilets silence screeches loud,
for when school’s empty, they arise:
Ghosts of pregnant girls lie wailing,
with cleaner-uncle poltergeists.
For now I sit on chilling white,
resounding prayers in my mind;
my heart racing with dire wish
a friend of Casper’s I won’t find —
Then eeeeeeek!
Is that a door creaking?
Perhaps it stemmed from my own mind,
Hinges sing as they fly open!
Thou who entered, oh be my kind!
A thud thud thud as shoes traverse
across the glinting marble floor;
and louder,
louder as they get
much nearer to my sacred door!
THEN SILENCE
or so I wish!
But a loud knock takes my breath away.
The unlatched bolt lies there lazing
HOW’D I FORGET TO LOCK TODAY?
A hand thrusts in so hard and swift,
door’s open ‘fore I can react!
I’m facing now a girl my age,
She bawls at me with little tact —
Eyes bloodshot and tummy bloated,
“YOU DISGUSTING PIG! HOW DARE YE?!”
I dash out of the girls’ toilet
before she tries to castrate me.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
*Dark wings of lost light
Feathered face of the fallen
Moon in your screeches*
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
I cried at the breakfast table this morning
my father carefully explained,
"wives must be submissive to their husbands"
"housecleaning is the domain of the woman"
"God created woman because man asked for a partner"
This past semester I wrote two papers
One, a fire and brimstone sermon
I quoted Anais Nin
sending the creators of sexist commercials to eternal suffering
**** them!" I said. "May they burn in hell."
For the women they portrayed were doormats
Misconceptions
Monsters
The other, the role of women in the 1920s,
No longer confined to the kitchen
they dropped ballots with their new freedom
they wore short dresses and short tresses
fingers wrapped around cigs
they quoted Wilde instead of Alcott
they danced until their feet hurt
I read of Anais Nin's "new woman,"
her partnership, not submission to man,
I craved a room of my own, neigh demanded it
For sheep stayed in the kitchen,
The Woolf had a study.
I read poetry
Sexton,
Plath,
I wept for their starved, depressed selves
caged, suffocating inside the clasped hands of a man.
Loved like rib-cage jails.
Adrienne Rich made me angry,
her daughter-in-law
forever trying to fit into a box
she was always too big for, spilling
at the edges, her shaved
legs like "white mammoth tusks"
I was finally
happy with my womanhood.
****** ****** ***** ********
they are mine.
******* free to move unrestrained,
jiggling under my shirt.
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
they are mine.
mine.
I am not ashamed of what I am
because there is no shame.
I am woman,
I am girl,
I am lady.
I am a creature
with a voice
a mind.
a creature who endured much abuse,
continue to endure.
I am woman
and I don't have to be wife or mother
unless I want to be.
I was not created for man;
I was created for the same reason he was,
to serve the same great purpose on this tiny blue dot.
I am not rib.
I am ****** ****** ***** ********
******* free, unrestrained,
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
I am a per.
I am a wo.
I am a hu.
Man and son need to back down,
collaborate not dominate,
speak not command,
for when less are forced into silence,
the maddening scream
hidden inside skin and bones and muscle-meat
becomes song.
this world of car horns and tire screeches
crying and wailing from raw throats
angry protests of indignation
could use a little music.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
ah, enslave without compassion
bound ancestors you must impale
go seek and show no mercy
let those who escape carry the tale
all the sufferers bearing witness
to their ministers spilling their blood
staggered screeches from bleak recesses
regicide plotters bend to the dust
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
slimy enshrinement brings into question
what's divinely lamented for
scatter populations with ruthlessness
let them choose sycophancy or sword
reappoint difficult commanders
for instigation unbroken awaits
kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion
never quite sure of their fate
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
let the cowardly unlock the gates for you
to heroically claim what's inside
crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder
all the world is your ****** bride
punctuate the roads with tollgates
***** monuments to broadcast your name
all your banquet's guests are your enemies
entertain them with one another's shame
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
under your tyranny
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
On my shoulder,
a raven rest.
Her talons pierce my skin,
as I hold her weight.
No one sees the raven,
I hide her very well.
The raven can never fly away,
She is bound to me.
The raven wants to be seen,
Be heard.
She screeches beside my ear,
She drives away my sanity.
The raven has been with me,
For awhile now.
At first she was small,
And barely noticeable.
As time went on,
The raven grew.
Her size grew along with her strength,
And also her desperation.
The raven wants to be free.
She wants to fly away,
To some place else,
And leave me behind.
Why did the raven come?
Why can't the raven leave?
Is the raven even real?
Am I insane?
I am the raven.
She is me.
I am she.
The raven is me.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
Red, orange, yellow;
the fire.
Scarlet, gold;
the Phoenix
rises from
the flame.
He screeches.
The earth shakes.
The people cower.
A shadow blocks
the sun.
All fall to
the ground before
the mighty firebird.
From the ashes
he has risen,
and to the ashes
he will return,
only to be reborn.
Phoenix immortal;
Phoenix eternal;
Phoenix undying.
All powerful,
and indescribable.
Phoenix
of the ember;
Phoenix
the firebird.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 11:52 AM UTC
oh you must be emo
i mean the way your music screams and screeches
oh you must be a preppy little *****
i mean the way you one direction blares
oh you must be old too
i mean the way you prehistoric music plays
oh you must be a jesus freak
i mean the way your gospel music is sung
well does music really define you
i mean i knew a person
she was happy
she was a tomboy
she was young
you knew her to be a christian yes
but her music was a variety
you'd think her crazy
you'd call her music taste bi polar
oh well you must hate all gay people
i mean you go to church on sundays
oh well you know t'v is in color right
i mean the stuff you watch doesn't even have sound or words
oh well you must be happy never thought about depression huh
i mean your hair is blonde clothes are pink and you're head cheerleader
oh well you must only own long sleeves and take anti depressants
i mean you are always so quiet and never stand up for your self
but that girl who goes to church
she doesn't feel accepted at church because shes gay
but that girl who watches black and white t.v.
it was her moms favorite movie
but that pretty blonde cheerleader
her dads a drunk and beats her and her mom
but that girl painted black
shes really nice once you get to know her
if only you knew her secret
if only you knew her mother
if only you lifted up her skirt and looked at her thighs
if only you got to know her
never let a persons music or look describe them
why don't you go try to talk to them
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
THE RETURN OF DUM MAARO DUM
( for Driftwood )
She dances
upon her tippy toes
upon my toes
whirling 'bout the room
to DUM MAARO DUM
she my little Bollywood queen.
"Again...again....again!" she squeals
mad with childish delight.
Asha sings to us
and we...dance!
Sunlight throws itself
at our feet.
We dance upon it.
Summer gasps
holds its breath.
There is nothing but
the music....and us!
She is all
of three
screaming: "Bollywood me...Bollywood me!"
"This...won't....get the dinner done!"
screams Mum above the fun.
The record screeches
and scratches ...ouch...off!
I cut cucumbers
into tiny tiny pieces.
Tilly washes spinach and lettuce.
But when Mum
goes to answer the phone
it's her best chum
she will be hours
we sneak Asha
back into the kitchen.
The return of. . .
"Dum maaro dum
Mit jaaye gham
Bolo subaha shaam
Hare Krishna hare Krishna hare Krishna Hare Ram!"
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 2:41 PM UTC
We hold onto
each other like
teeth trapping
new wisdoms,
heads crashing
through agony
as the jaw scrapes
and screeches like
demolition derbies.
We'll battle it out,
but who will last
until one is left?
No, drag my teeth
out of contention:
lasso a noose, yank
hard until whipped
numbly off track
to bleed the oil.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
With narrowed eyes
I glare out the window
Ridiculed
by the harsh beams of light
that glare back at me.
My ankles fidget
Shoulders lean forward
to see the unknowing plane
fly innocently overhead
and my bike
leaning unforgotten
against the rotting fence.
I stumble back
Spinning
In a whirring machine
that screeches and shudders
and thumps on the door
Can I come in?
Worried eyes flit my way
Take it easy
Like a fragile possession
Teetering on the edge
Crowds gather to catch
My faults
With walls binding me
I take comfort in darkness
It soothes my body
and warms my tears
but nourishes my fears
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
On a warm afternoon
the gulls are squeaking
life is calm
children are speaking
life is calm
A bus screeches to a halt
All remains calm
A dog draws his last breath
He met his fate two seconds back
Then all is calm.
Children are silent
Tears well in eyes
The big red bus in shock
hearing cries
from the office block
And all is silent and calm.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
Disembodied voices,
Calling to reach the other side.
Only ending up as screeches,
No clear voice or real cry.
This the white noise,
The solemn dark voices forgotten.
What is left in the dark?
But a light left off quite often.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
whats there to say?
soon the end of the day, will be upon us
as the driver pulls away
forgotten words bring on pain
whats left as they watch their lives decay ?
heartbroken faces watching tears of sadness soak the ground
beautiful and depressed
life and death
the sweet reminder still left on her breath
whats left for one to say?
words of comfort no longer comply
beautiful and depressed
as the **** slowly breaks
raises her head to the sky,
shes finally able to cry
heartbroken faces watching tears of sadness soak the ground
beautiful and depressed
life and death
the sweet reminder still left on her breath
all the pain locked inside
beautiful and depressed
no one knew the key
no one understood why
she seeks friendship from the sky
heavenly secrets held in the stars
heavy secrets disguised as scars
heartbroken faces watching tears of sadness soak the ground
beautiful and depressed
life and death
the sweet reminder still left on her breath
as traffic screeches to a halt
a terrifying scream breaks through
one of finally letting go
one that shocked all who knew
heartbroken faces watching tears of sadness soak the ground
beautiful and depressed
life and death
the sweet reminder dying on her breath
May 7, 2011
May 7, 2011 at 12:52 AM UTC
Dear Father
I’m alone in a very scary place
And I’m not certain how I got here.
I lost sight of the footprints I was following
And wandered off the pathway you laid out for me.
The wind is cold and the sky is dark.
I just heard screeches from the nearby woods
And this path ends in only brambles.
Kneeling on the rocky ground
I beseech the Lord to rescue me.
He either doesn’t hear my cry
Or this is where I need to be
To learn to never take my eyes
Away from the light that guides me.
ljm
Dec 16, 2022
Dec 16, 2022 at 9:38 AM UTC
I reflect upon the Father's love -
monoliths in Yosemite.
The eagle screeches far above
a song, "Your love's extremity".
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
The bed is cold when you turn in at night
because the frigid winter winds have settled in too
and like a fool you left the window open all day
You take a dab of speed as the lamp goes dim
its the only thing to keep tumescence
when you make love to a lover you no longer love
******* is no longer sport, only a chore
and the night birds at the window sing a song of sadness
beady eyes keeping tabs on the city boy's blues
When the day is done the television screeches, unreality television
you're so depressed and you have nothing, not even sleep
and the cold body beside you snores through the night
Even on rare occasions of sleep, you only dream of dying
fiery bus brought with peasant's tokens is burning
as it flies over some cliff face and you remain stoic
Waking only in afternoon sunsets with a sore head and dry mouth
stumble down the stairs to an empty kitchen and the cat has **** again
you clean the mess and make a sandwich, no topping just butter
How many days can pass before you crawl to the shop to buy food
and you contemplate suicide as you scrape the tub of butter again
falling upstairs in a somber stupor, vomiting after eating
She comes home from work and calls it off, packing her bags
you roll another joint without words being spoken
she closes the door and the already broken window breaks more
Smoking on your herbal solitude and preparing the last hit
that sweet tender brown in a spoon you found
it hits the vein and you feel happiness, first and final time
Sitting in some trash-found chair and reading Camus
these are the final moments, surely you cannot hold on
Abner Jay is playing and you fall asleep forever
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
I stand alone in the dark Fulton Street subway station,
Breathing in the urine-scented air,
Breathing out clouds of steam,
A subway train rushes along,
Not stopping,
Biting at my eardrums,
With the painful percussion,
Of thousands of people,
Silently screaming,
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
The air fanned by each subway car,
Rushes against me,
Pushes the ozone and the smell of burnt brake linings,
Into my nostrils,
Along with the air,
****** through the iron gratings,
Along miles of Brooklyn sidewalks,
Carrying the odor of a prostitute’s festering sores,
And the cries of a hungry, fatherless child in ***** diapers,
And the hoarse moaning of a city councilman mentoring a young intern,
And the cheap perfume of a fourteen year-old runaway,
Turning $20 tricks in an alley,
Smelling of stale Chinese food and wet dogs,
And . . .
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
. . . the smell of spoiled cabbage soup,
And the rancid remains of a hotdog buried in sauerkraut,
And putrid lilies lying in a gutter,
All assaulting me, forcing me backwards,
Until my back presses against,
The grimy once-white tiles,
That coldly burn their graffiti on my spine:
God is dead,
Bake a ****
Whitey *****
**** the *******
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
The train finally passes,
Its red eyes receding into the dank,
Dark tunnel beyond the platform,
The screeches and screams slowly die out,
Their echoes ******* behind them,
The smell,
Of my,
Warm
*****
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
They said high school was a home of learning
Oh I learned alright
They said it would construct my future
All it did was destroy me with the past
They said it would be safe
They have no defense over the demons
They said it would develop me as a person
But I remain who I was... only shattered
They said so many things, yet understood so little
This goes to the pillow-clutchers
to the broken who carry soaked and salty handkerchiefs
to the flesh that thrive for streaks of red dripping out
to the souls that are constantly bombarded by screeches of lies
Lies that overrun every beauty in and out
Lies that lead to masochistic actions
Waiting for the second heartbeat after every punch
Hoping this would free the monsters trapped within
This goes to the insecure
No, we are not emo
How can one contain our being in just three letters?
We are not superficial pain lovers
We are violated, dispirited, downhearted, beaten, unsettled, splintered, forgotten
But we will never be merely emo
A high school is not filled with students
It is filled with labels, rumors, divisions and fake personas
filled with eyes that look straight into your soul
filled with whispers that spread like a virus
Getting worse and worse after every ear it has jumped into
Savages looking for the flaw that can destroy you
Until you break and mindlessly follow their example
**High school is where you lose who you are
And be who everyone else wants you to be**
Everyone thought I was just being vain
Always staring at the mirror, trying to be cute
Never did it come into their minds that I was already believing the lies
ready to accept the rumors
using FINE as my own maxim
**** I'm Never Enough
But I waited
Waited for someone to drive out the beasts
to heal my scars
to fill my emptiness
Yet until now I remain drenched in loneliness and fear
High school is worse than hell
A quick and small crack in your soul hurts more
Than an eternal burn of your flesh
This is why we're ready to see the light come out of our eyes
But I'm holding on
For you need pain before you're declared strong
For you need darkness before you see the stars
For you need death before you reach heaven
For where there are angels,
there will always be demons
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
The wheel spins slowly to a stop
traffic screeches to a halt
the aslant to this crime
is now far away, speeding across town
Another monday hit and run
another angel of death on wheels
this weekly occurrence
in this city of steel
Euthanasia is banned here
yet the maniacs on four wheels
want to finish what they started
they want to finish you and me
So they drive with headlights flashing
their horns blaring liken to speed demons
dive friend if you can, out of the way
for they pay tax for these road ways
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC
I am
In a word
transfixed to a moment
the epitome of evolution
the pinnacle of creation
I laugh triumphantly
As my knife pierces the medium rare steak
So civilized
I am
that rare breeze
that has traveled the distance
of so many sorrows
a physical force
borne of the contradiction
between warmth and the abyss
I am
very respected
I adjust the tie
the trapezoidal patterns hide so coolly
the noose around my neck
a lynching of estimation
in a two part drama
I am
leaning against the wall
the flesh pressed against the graffiti
my being transposed against someone else's thoughts
its all a happenstance
an accidental meeting without a gaze
but for that commonality
we have nothing in common
I am
a synapse
I pass on the sensations
of pain and pleasure
without discrimination
my free will
in all its glory
succumbs to a chemical reaction
yet I must be more
or maybe just maybe
the knife I hold can pierce more than flesh
I am
floating on a stationary platform
I choose my destiny
I rearrange the order of confusion
a train screeches to a halt
a sea of ties and heels
self assured smiles
of the precise menu
may I have the check please
I am
a random canopy of emotion
I flutter in the breeze
the clearest expression of being
of breathing
of wanting
of feeling
a rare glimpse
a subtle smile
a delicate touch of flesh against flesh
its all too fleeting
transparency and no more
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
In the fall of light,
Trees turn to stone.
This time the sun removes,
Told in tales of the rise of moon.
Light winds rustle rusted leaves—
And a fur will soon be feathered in a bed.
And silence screeches as some flying bark embarks
And the very trees are hollowed in their grieves of the newly
Throrned, red, running rose— of the dearly claimed, arisen dead.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC