"slaughterhouse" poems
Don’t tell me it can’t all be equally shared
Don’t tell me elections are fair
Anywhere
I know whose had the power
The weapons to prove it
The world in their hands
And the money to move it
Perpetual profit
New product to cell
Dwellin’ deep in the pocket
Of your lol
So don’t tell me with Twitter you’re not all Obsessed
When you buy every lie presidential address
Comin’ hot off the press
Not so free to inform
A pornhub tuggin’ ******
Publicity Storm
And another blackout
On my people uncovered
Like Firestone burnin’ through natives
Unrubbered
Don’t tell me you don’t have the cure
Or that war
Isn’t waged on the people
To sheeple the poor
To the industry slaughterhouse
Dream factory
Where success is a breath of fresh
Debt peony
I know slavery still puts
That food on the table
And big pharma’s FDA puppets, the label
So don’t tell me dope is what’s making us Dumb
Don’t tell me my God’s not the LSD sun
Or that guns aren’t hired
To desecrate my
Sanctified inner peace
Keepin’ graffiti sky
For my ties to this earth
Are invaluable worth
So don’t tell me my rights haven’t been mine Since birth
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
I am a man
of no flag
no God
and no party
but this offers me
certain freedoms
like freedom from offense
and freedom to offend
I've always found the most
"offensive" jokes to be the funniest
like a sacred cow butcher
and if you are offended easily
this might not be the poem for you
that being said
here we go
Did you hear the one
about the last pope
who actually did any good?
yeah me neither
What did the pilot say
when the Muslim man
walked on his plane?
"This is flight 216
we may have a potential
security risk on the plane."
America: Land of the free
home of the brave?
where a vast majority
of the population
are wage slave cowards
and don't get me started on England
a hot nest of xenophobia and racism
which almost makes me glad
to not live there anymore
and it doesn't matter
if you are a democrat
or a republican
because either way
you are wrong, and dumb
did you hear the one about
the anti-gay republican in the gay bar?
He took the most drugged up man he could find
for some fun in the bathroom stall
because the chances are tomorrow
he won't remember enough to break the story
I live in the sacred cow slaughter house
(you can't spell slaughter without laughter)
and the only food that really satisfies me anymore
is USDA prime choice sacred cow beef
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
What can you say about Pennsylvania
in regard to New England except that
it is slightly less cold, and less rocky,
or rather that the rocks are different?
Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there,
whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse
is not easy to tell, so quickly
are human efforts bundled back into nature.
In fall, the trees turn yellower-
hard maple, hickory, and oak
give way to tulip poplar, black walnut,
and locust. The woods are overgrown
with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier
spreading its low net of anxious small claws.
In warm November, the mulching forest floor
smells like a rotting animal.
A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky
is soft with haze and paper-gray
even as the sun shines, and the rain
falls soft on the shoulders of farmers
while the children keep on playing,
their heads of hair beaded like spider webs.
A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities
whose people palaver in prolonged vowels.
There is a secret here, some death-defying joke
the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply-
a suet of consolation fetched straight
from the slaughterhouse and hung out
for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce,
where the husks of sunflower seeds
and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd
the snow that barely masks the still-green grass.
I knew that secret once, and have forgotten.
The death-defying secret-it rises
toward me like a dog's gaze, loving
but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black
slumped between its two polluted rivers,
warmth's shadow leans close to the wall
and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
5.4k
And you left me like a baby flower choking
On dust, and loss of future blooming,
And tremors like Eos's tears
On the stillest vernal pool -
It was as if you stole my life and simply
Went - or put me on my little sailboat
That sang of youth and an hourglass, a
Duet composed in the ***** crystal of purgatory,
Between my insatiably wild stronghold and
The rosy maiden, blushing, full, yet
Dumb, willingly deaf to red flags,
Praying for a partner to make a golden
Lady of the wood and water
And light, so warm and shimmering under
The forest's pine-down cover - what a
Big, hasty mistake, to keep yourself
Hollow and blind to the day's good things, to remain a
Man alone, wistfully misplacing a love
Who showed the loyalty of a crimson kindness, and who
Was always singing bliss and beauty and glowing into your ears,
So stuffed with lies, bitterness, ideals, and
Full like drunken leeches - all this, and the coldness, the stubbornness
Of the oldest mule, to stay isolated from my
Loving eyes, to make time with our sorrowful
Echoes, yours and mine.
*vertical quote from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
What bad could happen to a boy of sixteen, walking through the woods trying to find a nice spot to smoke and read Slaughterhouse-Five?
But now that I'm thinking about it, Stephen King may or may not have written a book about this exact question, more or less.
And as everyone who has read The Gunslinger Volume Six: Song of Sussanah, knows, everything Stephen King writes happens. Stephen King is God, in this sense.
Nevertheless, I found a nice spot, next to a dried out creek bed, complete with a gallon bucket and the scent of lavender.
And so I sat, and rolled a couple cigarettes, and dove into the mind and time traveling of Billy Pilgrim.
Sitting there, on that bucket, old Kurt spoke to me.
The previous owner of this copy of Slaughterhouse-Five also spoke to me.
With highlights and underlines he allowed me into his mind and thought processes while reading this book.
He underlined every passage that had to do with the Tralfamadorians views on time and the coexistence of every moment.
Soon, it became dark and I could no longer read, having only one cigarette left, I headed home.
Fifteen minutes later I was home, and if Stephen King had written about this event he wrote it as it happened. With no harm and no foul.
And maybe I dislike him for that
and maybe I don't understand why he did that,
why he would wrote a boring tale of a boring boy going on a boring walk in some boring Northern California forest.
And this writing does not feel complete but the Pabst is starting to kick in so I think I'll leave this one alone for now.
And Stephen King **** it, I can't even think of a title for this piece of ****
Nevermind, I got it.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
I would die for them
To not be consumed
Through mass consumption,
Through a mass genocide.
Every day, millions dead.
Every day alive,
Just as miserable, as hopeless
As the day they are led
To the heavy slaughterhouse doors.
I would die for it to end.
But since I can't, I'll live for them.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
met a man once
and he took me to a steakhouse
the type where tuxedo men come back
with a twee bite-sized piece of meat on a plate
he ordered my steak for me
and though it glistened
the slab barely satisfied
the crack in my teeth
i was starving
and he kept talking about
business deals
and networking
to the type of cars that make him hard
which one of these thousand ******* forks
is best to stab?
making friends
with a bunch of pruned men
chatting business
he introduced me
she speaks Spanish
how exotic
raw and juicy
STEAK
sure does go well with potatoes
i started ordering loads of wine
when they all agreed that it was time
to make America great again
i downed even more down my throat
‘till I was seeing spuds in Versace
drinks for everyone!
we ordered like five bottles
so drunk
that I started mooing
but if this gasbag ever hopes to get laid
he’ll need to go to the slaughterhouse for that
meanwhile, let the bartender do the milking
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
Like a character hoarding advises like jewelry
from a story like Fantastic Beasts, what do you think
what are the best life advises you have hoarded so far?
Sharing some of mine before they get stuck
in another schedule in the slaughterhouse inventory:
"Wisest is he that knows he does not know"
"Just live your life"
"Sing in Full Voice, Until Then"
"What are you doing here?"
"What is your plan?"
"Eat first"
Do not worry we have better villains
and heroes now than long time ago, I told my brother.
In turn, he made a song on a ukelele
after his little one cried and hid away the broken
CD collection of her brother. They called it together, the
"Last Supper Constellations".
His child said, "If there was a Creator. I would like to think He or She, like you or mama, would be kind. Would not that be swell?"
My brother shared with us one advise from his favorite collection,
"My friend had a family filled with orphans. Even when they could no longer afford to adopt, they continued to adopt children. I did not understand before, but I also did not forget his story." #
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
step 1: de·ni·al
noun
the action of declaring something to be untrue.
i thought about sending you an email today.
i got through four drafts before i quit.
i haven't talked to you in three months. i haven't deleted your messages in three months. i haven't stopped thinking about you in three months. my heart is still synced with yours. it stopped beating 131,487 minutes ago. please leave a message after the beep.
step 2: an·ger
noun
a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.
i'm glad you're gone. you were a house but you were never a home for me. i've moved three times since i left.
you shoved your fingers down my throat and left me retching in the snow, excuses tripping on their way out of your cherry bitten lips.
you made me your slaughterhouse, blood on my hands and heart.
i am made of too many things, a conglomeration the size of a galaxy, thirty people sewn into my skin. there is a hole in my chest the size of your fist. please leave a message after the beep.
step 3: bar·gain
verb
negotiate the terms and conditions of a transaction.
(maybe if i had loved you a little less you would have learned to love me back)
step 4: de·pres·sion
noun
severe despondency and dejection, typically felt over a period of time and accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy.
i spent more time thinking about you than i ever did about myself. i'm not sure if this is selfish or selfless and i'm not sure if i know the difference. i hung up on you once and you didn't speak to me for a week and i'm not sure if this is love or hatred and i'm not sure if i know the difference. i haven't spoken to you in seven months. please leave a message after the beep.
step 5: ac·cept·ance
noun
agreement with or belief in an idea, opinion, or explanation.
you told me that acceptance was the same as tolerance.
i don't think i believe you.
i haven't spoken to you in twelve months.
please leave a message after the beep.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
**** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
take me from this wonder,
this blindness in the night.
Anger me in morning
with the refusal of ugly ***
sleep still on our tongues,
whiskey on my breath.
Treat me to your body
when I am true and I am good,
dance me through your questions
until you are finally understood.
I can hear your longing
though I cannot hear your voice,
you know that I choose you,
though, I never really had a choice.
Tease me with your movie scenes,
your folded, anxious legs,
a calf born into the slaughterhouse,
the conveyor-belt, the hatchling, the egg.
I was doomed to your misfit puzzle,
I was sentenced to decay,
skin seared by your magnificence,
by your gratuitous delay.
Delay from a fulfilment,
a delay from inner peace,
the incremental recovery
whilst dreaming of the sea.
Now I'm drowning in the wishing well,
in the steady clamour of home;
the pill-box in the aquifer,
the faded reference to Rome.
I can memorise your breathing
hair fawning over your chest,
there are countless decent lovers,
but you know that I loved you the best.
So **** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
I am tired of words and meaning,
those blind entries
into the night.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
If I were to say;
the devil & god both
rage within,
I would render myself
dishonest.
For despite blind faith
you have never heard
me surrender,
to the devil or god.
The agnostic in me
did surrender, to a name
still unknown.
An internal war
battles of wills I so fought
pleading & praying;
*save me from what I have
so become.*
A war rages within
thirsty blood red, slaughter
a house for the dead.
I fall at your feet, lick the blood
splashed & spilled;
a slaughterhouse will never
be a clean resting place.
I kneel; genuflect
at the
shrine of gods
& monsters.
I whisper;
*What will be?
What will become of me?*
Laughing, spitting,
in the face of anguished despair.
A war rages within.
Nor devil nor god may see,
I am yours for slaughter,
surrendered for you
in this wasteland
my mind created when
you
were first
gone.
© Sia Jane
"I’ll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me."
Wishbone by Richard Siken
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
I am in love with you sometimes
like when I am riding the bus
beneath luminous buildings stapled deep
into the polluted black of the sky
that sadistic monoliths so horribly scrape.
Then there are times when I want you dead.
I scream loud into my pillow
then press my ear to the cotton
but after my punches it is too scared to reply
so all I hear are the echoes of my scream.
You ought to be ashamed for what you've done.
I am a strong, resilient, independent young person
and you blank face, you liar,
you slaughterhouse chief...
You ought to be ashamed.
Does your heart beat like a racehorse
when the Jockeys come off?
Are you aroused when a man in a suit,
a business-man suit,
tosses the homeless a quarter?
Do you hope that it lands by their tattered, torn shoe heads up?
Do you think they just need a little luck?
If you do,
then I have a secret to tell you:
*You are the most flawless person I have ever seen,
and holding hands on the city bus scares the living **** out of me.*
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
"I'll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting..."
Richard Siken
You set my soul on fire
pouring gasoline over
every inch of the skin
I inhabit daily
You set my soul on fire
knowing how much it
would burn, leaving
deep everlasting scars
You set my soul on fire
excruciatingly ripping
a person I love so
knowing the pain you'd cause
You set my soul on fire
your face ablaze with
an unspoken contentment
at claiming what you believe is yours
I sit here and mourn
my heart misshaped from the norm
I sit here and weep
at how trampled I was by your feet
I sit here with anger
knowing where to point the finger
twist it round,
with your well rehearsed stirs
that damage, disintegrate and curse
© Sia Jane
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
O’er the hill the rampant stampede
and the sound of thundering hooves,
as the mighty men of steel and armour,
hasten their steeds with all passion and eagerness,
to have at the fray in which their fellows are in
deadlock with the enemy.
Following the noble banner as it
twists and bends under the speed
of the horsemen’s noble steeds.
as edging ever nearer to the battlefield.
Then, with a shout of ardent Patriotism,
and the silent but deadly ring of cold steel,
the beating hooves trample,
as the swift sleek movements of the sword
befell the helpless enemy troopers and drones,
sent like sheep into a slaughterhouse,
and hence few shall return unscathed,
for these generals havent the decency for
diplomacy and discussion,
only to make ****** war.
And should they have cause to panic or fear,
they shall hastily mutter such words as these,
“Send in the cavalry!”,
and with little argument, we shall go,
over the hill in a stampede of
death and glory,
like the Valkyries,
we shall ride,
and hasten the deaths of they,
my generals enemies.
I am their last resort,
I am the cavalry.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
Looking down from over their bodies - I count them.
My split mind at once rejoices in and recoils from that counting.
Peering back over my shoulder I make
dark associations.
It’s as if I was afraid of becoming lost
the way the bodies made a trail like bread crumbs,
leading back from the places I had been.
I walk with the Holy Light.
I walk with my dark companion.
I walk between the spines of the body shrikes.
They harvest all my crumbs and remind me I am lost.
They hook the bodies high from spikes
so I look up to make the body count.
I can see the Holy Script
but I can’t seem to find the way.
Red and gold beacons in the dream,
flickering off and on like syncopated declarations
as if saying:
Here I am
Here I am
Here I am.
All elbows and knees I slip between the webs of the
orb weavers and the cactus spines of the butcher birds
while they count the bodies for me:
Here they are
Here they are
Here they are.
Hang-dog and hard of breathing I have my medicine.
I’m hanging from the sleeping cliffs over
hell’s half acre and the high deserts.
I remember my brother flying me to California on a great olive branch.
He fed me sushi and smiled while he watched by brain heal.
But I was coming for the bodies.
My count was smaller then, but it was high enough for him
and his hands were the keepers of the flame.
The fire there was exiled and quietly he laid it by.
My brother spread out over the carpet of time like
the faithful departed with the weavers and the shrikes and
mounted bodies in the sky.
A child appears before me on the walk - eyes like a baby deer.
His mother is two blocks behind, so he asks three questions while he waits:
Why are you smoking?
Where are your hands?
Is it getting dark soon?
He leaves me to wonder where my hands are and where the dark is,
the Holy Sage smoking at my side.
Like some dark sabbath.
Like some reading of the will.
Like some dark and holy delta sleep in a crib of red clay.
I have a feeling I have been gone a very long time and I
want to be home now,
but there is buzzing and chirping and a red light and
Saul of Tarsus holds a great tome before me and with my hands
I hide my eyes.
I am the dreaming of the world of dreams.
Therein the Holy Light rages like the flare of 1000 suns
while my eyes are shuttered tight
like old memories all gone beyond the sorrow.
The old oath keepers are all plates and screws.
The golden woven orbs and cactus spines are all empty on
the altar like a decommissioned slaughterhouse.
So I go and make a body count.
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 8:00 PM UTC
Should I become a middle school math or English teacher?
Leave my bed early in the morning and return with test papers to grade.
With what authority will I persuade those kids to sit still and perform
calculations and interpretations.
I won’t be allowed to teach A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Nope, it’ll be
Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies and Slaughterhouse Five. Novels
that annoy.
Poems and math are magic. Words and numbers are things no one has
ever seen or heard or touched.
But the administration keeps them separate. The curriculum’s
determinate.
The kids are beautiful but combustible. When middle school lets out at
the periapsis of Earth’s orbit, that’s the face of joy.
The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
wonders. The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn
and Jim.
Once a gaggle of teenage girls bet whether I wore boxers or jockeys. I felt
ambushed and unlucky. Also a bit afraid.
There’s little love lost between the students and the teachers. Expect to
forget and be forgotten. Information.
I remember Mr. Killian my chemistry teacher. So boring about something
I now find so interesting and important. He wasn’t boring; I was
boring.
I remember Mr. Christensen my history teacher. He was fat and funny but
taught as little as possible. I was known to laugh so hard I cried.
I remember Mr. T my calculus teacher. He dressed everyday exactly like
Gene Kranz in mission control. I was confused past help so he didn’t
help.
I remember Tone Kwas my music teacher. He said I was the worst
trumpet player he’d ever tried to teach and switched me to
sousaphone. He was right but so what! Playing badly is the best
riposte.
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 6:40 AM UTC
pestilence and
rapture,
two key elements
of
western civilization.
what is the difference
between a moth
and a
butterfly?
coffee stained teeth
catch soft whispers in the dark.
as we sit, surrounded by people,
frankness and penitence,
the priests, cops, postmen,
stockholders, school teachers,
slaughterhouse workers,
dishwashers,
garbage truck drivers,
prostitutes, strippers,
and hobos,
all working towards
what they believe to be the common good.
while we sit
in our chairs, wearing nothing,
clipping our toenails
each fractured fragment a whole.
we aren't alone anymore.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:33 AM UTC
Our quiet dispositions made for a double-edged sword, as we sat on blood-stained sheets, littered with stems and shredded tobacco bits.
Listening to "Blowing It" by Dinosaur Jr. I realized I, too, didn't know a thing to say to you. We seemed similar, in a way to a certain extent.
He had a stick and poke on his thigh that said "NO"
and we ****** Casually.
========================================================================
"I think you're cute and I like that you're tall."
"I think you're cute too and it's nice that you like that."
========================================================================
We smoked spliffs and talked about how it was nice to be dating multiple people.
And what it's like to have a sugar mama,
And that crack is an underrated drug,
And that I should meet more people who like The Velvet Underground,
And how we both like beer, IPAs,
And how I smelled nice,
And how I shouldn't have chosen "Women" of Bukowski's to read first,
And that he should read "Slaughterhouse-Five", and I was willing to give him my copy
(The blood on my sheets wasn't mine, he had skinned knees.)
It was odd, but also nice, to meet someone with a similar disposition to me,
but there was nothing incendiary to hang on to, more just a slow warmth.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
To the kid in the hallway telling his friend
"Maybe you need a **** whistle."
And to her response, a sarcastic
"Matt, **** jokes aren't funny."
You're **** right they aren't
Tell me, how is anyone forcing themself onto another person funny?
How are the I don't want tos when her "no" couldn't scream loud enough funny?
How are the ****** thighs and bruised hips funny?
How is the waking up in the middle of the night
How are the flashbacks and her wailing funny?
How is the seven year-old who had so much anxiety she'd tear her hair out
Or a sixteen year-old who kept eyeliner and a kitchen knife side by side in her purse funny?
It's about as funny as a slaughterhouse full of pigs taunting the other pigs
And telling them their approaching doomsday is amusing.
I dug my key into the palm of my hand like a knife when I heard this jeer
Clenching and unclenching a fist
Because I knew if I did not
That hand would go right through your faces.
You do not know the impact of your words
You see, for a survivor
Jokes about ****** assault are triggers.
They bring back every memory
Which becomes a stinging tear behind an eyeball
Fighting not to emerge from its home.
When I say something
Classically I am being "too sensitive"
Just as I was "too sensitive"
When he told me to get on top of him
And I said no
So much courage mustered up in a little body
I could have moved mountains that day
I could have been my own goddess
At seven years old
But he did not care
He was bigger than me
And he imposed that will onto my body
Reducing my childlike frame to the size of a fly
Being swatted by the paw of a lion.
I will not be silent
So when you tell a **** joke and I am in earshot
Do not expect me to laugh
Because there is nothing funny about a slaughterhouse.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Eve held two cigarettes in her lips and lit them. She passed one to Mark, beside her on the chaise. Thomas was with Delilah in the bedchamber getting a few lessons in life. They were making noises like a slaughterhouse as Mark tried to focus his thoughts.
He left the couch and went to the phone, dialing Satan’s office. Eve watching him with heavy lids, her arm stretched across the curved backboard. She inhaled forcefully, making thick clouds that obscured her face, then her head, and then the whole couch. He was watching her too, wondering what she was up to as Satan picked up the line.
“Yeh?” said the devil.
“Satan, Mark. We’ve got to talk.”
Satan was silent for a moment, then said sharply, “Look, they’ve got wire-taps.
Why don’t you come over here? We can talk in person. It’s safer then taking a chance on them listening.”
Mark thought that was smart, but if they were listening they’d already gotten an earful, but he had to take that chance.
He hung up the phone and fanned the air with his hands. The girl was gone.
He heard chuckling from the bedchamber and realized there were more voices than before, loudly squealing and giggling. He heard Thomas moaning in utter delight and decided to leave him there. As far as Thomas was concerned, Purgatory never felt so good.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
Poetry whirls down drains,
cruises down highway lanes..
toll free.
Poetry is a clear potion,
a natural motion.
Poetry is the bird gliding high,
and of course, the sky.
Poetry is thundering elk
through forests and glades,
and the wolves that keep pace.
Poetry is the ****
Poetry is democracy,
and its unfortunate hypocracy.
Poetry is eternity vanished in an instant.
Poetry is a slaughterhouse,
a vegetable garden.
Poetry is cat and mouse.
Poetry ascends to descend,
breaks to repair,
it's uncommonly rare.
Poetry is the longest minute
and the shortest hour.
Poetry lives when it is dead.
Poetry comes from the body,
thought by the head.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC