"stabled" poems
Inside-outside, upside-down. Constant motion, spinning round.
Conscious split, two sides torn. Personalities are born.
Balanced, stabled, falling down. Spilling over onto the ground.
Thoughts amuck, frayed and tattered. Sanity beaten, bruised, and battered.
Sailing, drowning, waters of my mind. Washed upon its shores I might find.
Forgetting rhythm, losing time. Blacking out, right here is fine.
I'll end this now, my own terms. I'll perplex them, their thoughts will burn.
Gathering together my person, my flock. I'll lay it's all down on the chopping block.
Panting, sweating, head in hand. It's okay... Im normal again.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
The writer is
bound by the Oedipus
cauldron stewing can't relax
--all women are mine--
but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.
But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
--no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.
Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
--our fathers,
and the void of space,
--our mother's womb.
the writer
was busy staring at the girls that walked by
ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
or they would be.
Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
they walked upon. Our Woodstock
is celebrity interviews,
reservations failing,
political satires--the last ring of change
sold at five cents a word. Period.
the writer
says it understands and writes:
"Sticks shaped from elitism
rare.
Usually a vibe too brittle,
breaking in battle.
The bass thundered robins.
The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
electrifying beat.
The brass was addiction
to the crowd's ears.
All before the elitism was born,
a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."
the writer
knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
"Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
waving his gun on TV?
While listening to the Beatles, you
sit and watch the vagabond cry.
He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
in a metal casket.
We need a new flame. Those watching TV
get your hands out of the basket."
the writer
walks with grandma Alice
by lakes,
thrilling dementia
"Don't tell me what taurine
and caffeine can do to my heart.
I can have alligators in my rib meat
eating away at bone marrow.
High? That's your question?
Hi...I am a float
in a useless pond
bordered by malnourished trees.
By the love of hell you better not
fertilize those ****** trees
because if I die
the alligator of my ribs
will dine and take your ****
girlfriend straight to the vet.
I thank you for asking though."
the writer misses
the syrup in the tree completely
I am not your beatnik
or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
If his bed was empty,
where once red poppies
bobbed a sled
downhill.
It became colder
and thin ice grew.
From the starting gate,
they fell,
spawned indifference,
for they were like two horses,
stabled in the face.
Reined for the show.
With blue ribbons in their eyes,
so very prim and proper
in public eyes.
Away, their tongues at war,
fueling the armies,
in their eyes.
He cried the impending emptiness,
warmth and love,
the empty bed.
The pound of fish
on Fridays.
And slices of cake,
where the red poppies
come to thrive
and the sled cherishing
the ride.
Yet.
Blind not to her vices and him.
Their marriage dissolved.
Infidelity in her back pocket
and undoubtedly a bigger sled.
Where are my angels,
he cried so often
the last thirty years
of darkness.
Where unfortunate endings
replaced auspices beginnings
and shadow dancing replaced romance.
See through
a lone wolf distancing from the pack.
Logan Robertson
5/17/2018
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
O Liberty, God-gifted--
Young and immortal maid--
In your high hand uplifted,
The torch declares your trade.
Its crimson menace, flaming
Upon the sea and shore,
Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming
That Law shall be no more.
Austere incendiary,
We're blinking in the light;
Where is your customary
Grenade of dynamite?
Where are your staves and switches
For men of gentle birth?
Your mask and dirk for riches?
Your chains for wit and worth?
Perhaps, you've brought the halters
You used in the old days,
When round religion's altars
You stabled Cromwell's bays?
Behind you, unsuspected,
Have you the axe, fair *****
Wherewith you once collected
A poll-tax for the French?
America salutes you--
Preparing to "disgorge."
Take everything that suits you,
And marry Henry George.
2.4k
.
War. Famine.
Pestilence. Death.
Enjoy a game of poker.
It relieves the boredom.
They only have one Big project
booked into the work diary.
The horses are stabled,
so why not have down time?
The day-to-day business
takes care of itself.
Ably supervised by the humans
in a race to the Big day.
The stillness is penetrated by sound.
Death cleaning his teeth
with his reaping scythe or
Death sharpening his reaping scythe
on his teeth.
Either way, it shattered vertebrae.
His nerves were getting twitchy.
Three Kings, the Jack and Queen of Clubs.
Royals were dropping like flies.
It was going to be a busy night.
He met Wars eyes and her bet,
**** She looks beautiful sweating),
paid an advance and called.
Uncharacteristically delicate,
he lay down his souls.
Jack and Queen of Clubs.
Kings of Diamonds, Spades and Hearts.
War smiled sweetly.
Her dirk-like eyelashes
fluttering an assassins dance.
Letting her cards fall soft,
triumphant with winners ecstasy,
she declares her hand...
… “SNAP!” she says.
© Pagan Paul (14/03/17)
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
You followed Julie
in and out
of book shops
along Charing Cross Road
watching
as she picked out
a book to view
a few pages
or run a thin finger
down the book’s spine
studying her face
as she took out
a Sartre or Wittgenstein
her eyes running
along the lines
mouthing the big words
she talking
of her parents
the doctors
how they were pretty much
shot out of the sky
when they discovered
she was stabled up
in some hospital wing
for drug plunging
or pill popping
and you should have seen
my mother’s face
she said
like daddy
had ****** her ****
she picked out
a book by Schopenhauer
the old philosopher’s face
on the cover
staring out
you searched her eyes
the depth of them
the colour
the changing hue
from what appeared
green to blue
and green again
or so it seemed
when have you got
to be back
in the hospital?
you asked
6pm or so
she muttered
pushing the book back
on the shelf
wiping her hands
on her jeans
her small ****
indicating their presence
as she moved
toward you
what are your parents
going do about you?
you asked
keep out of sight
of their posh friends
say I’m abroad
or someplace else
you noticed her lips
as she spoke
her tongue
moving over them
like some waking snake
then she moved on and out
of the shop
and along the road
you kept up beside her
sensing her hand
seeking yours
taking one
of your fingers
she put it
to her mouth
and gave a ****
and eyed you
sideways on
with that grin
she sometimes wore
that young middle class
English girl
playing the *****
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
Amillion steel pin ****** divine
each day closer to death we climb
crystal shards bejewel the sky
While
The Cities beneath me
Kicking and crying
But all I hear is goodbye
-
Unreason not able
Why are these ****** Not stabled
Just wanderin
Thru this fable
stubbed my toe
on your god of stone
That litters this river
We all flow
So
Let’s dance in this
Technicolor bliss
And never ending showers
of little lead gifts
human disinfectant
for where the slime live
Where the slime live
-
Broken bones remind the soul
of the all violence that’s been sold
All the while racing toward
that ever after
We once called home
No more
boiling jealousy
envious bedroom eyes
hideous tongues beguile
Thick salavatory lies
Lifeless imbeciles
Revolving doors
carnivorous smiles
covetous masturbators
**** Gazing while
Justice is **********
Coming a little premature
Serving our just deserves
oh my libertine
How I loathe to
See you In chains
If their speed is good enough for 6 yr olds
Then it’s safe enough for me
HEY!!!!!
I want my! I want my! I want my
methamphetamine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
-
I got too many middle fingers
Shoot straight from the cuff
Humans might lose the race
Oh well, close enough
Outlawed truth and reason
But here, I just took a dump
Never waste a good crisis
My Re-elected incumbents
Gotta Fill Them Prisons
Protest prices ‘cause
Dollars fill the fists
Along the streets uprisen
HEY!!!
Whats the policy on returns?
I’m just not happy with this
Oblivion
-
broadcast opinions
Regimental TV
Coerced confession
global stupidity
Yes, I’d like to report a hijacking
0f another species
Endangered or
Polluted at best
Just Don’t forget to breath
Oh yeah, you’re dead
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 6:45 AM UTC
A stabled heart, pain free,
Not that easy to maintain,
Lost ambitions and self esteem,
Not that easy to regain,
Bottled up, intense emotions,
Hold long will I refrain?
Criticism in different shapes 'n' colors,
How long will I contain?
Tell me, how can I not go insane?
When hurt is all that remains,
Tell me, how can I not be vain?
Can't take in any more pain,
Lost happiness, lost joy,
Nothing more left to destroy,
Lost count of the times I lost myself,
What else is there to drain?
~A.d | 3 Aug 2014
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:26 AM UTC
Have you seen the tremble of the gust?
that blows the land without any mercy,
Putting the damage on the lives of lonely people,
Uncontrolled acts that made the wind whistle.
Have you seen the earth shatter,
Mad rumbled and roared like a monster beast,
shivering with extreme grin and violence,
Lands torned apart caring on no one's presence.
Have you seen the water flowing from heaven,
on heavy volumes and unexpected occurence,
killing the lives of the stabled occupations
stumbled upon floods of the dying nation
Have you seen the giant waves of the coast?
or the fatal mud flows from volcanoes,
Can we know the point or we are so blind not to fear
that we are paying our tolls and the apocalypse is getting near.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 6:30 PM UTC
Past and Future stabled together – both present, tethered, and unstable.
Kindred ghosts pushed-pulled by a hopeful anxiety,
agitated by the yet unknown morning, eager to be
free. And once freed, breaking fast, bolt-bursting, in competition
– in unison,
leaving Present to peer from the darkness
– who will win after all?
Aug 1, 2021
Aug 1, 2021 at 2:54 AM UTC
O Lord,
Why does my heart cry out within me?
Why does it leap from mountain to valley,
From lofty tree to thorny bush?
Why does it smile sweetly and begin to sing,
Only to sigh and be downcast in another moment?
Truly, it does not reflect my life,
For my life is stable, and filled with good things,
You look upon me with love and blessing,
Caring and soothing are your ways.
But my heart won’t be hemmed in,
It refuses to be tranquil,
Like a high-spirited horse refusing to be stabled.
But on you I can always count,
To fill me with joy,
And satisfaction.
May I not sting others when I feel I’m in a pit,
Nor spit poison on myself when I see through clouded eyes.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
I searched the Sun back and forth for any remnant scorch marks of our love, but all that was left were trails blazed by broken hearts and the insecure decisions made by those around us, whom spoke sub zero opinions around our flame — Choking it into the frosted conversation on the cobble stones of my past habitation.
Now, we sit.
Miles apart — noses pierced.
A daily reminder of the intimacy and mirrored beauty we shared.
Now, all that’s left of our dialogue is a screen telling me, your updates of which you veneered to the general public about how you are feeling.
The equator between us has left me naturally fading away, further and further into the arms of my pillow, where once you were held.
We clutched each others skins, pressing away the worries and troubles of which the world threw at us.
You were a high tower and refuge.
You stabled the light of which would beacon the rest of my lighthouse heart for the world to see.
Silently, scuttling across the floors of seas we would sit.
Oblivious to the popular culture and its fierce tricks to drown us in capitalism.
Our Icarus hearts made from feathers of hope, melted into wax statues of Medusa villainy.
This drought through the desert has taken me more than 40 days, which feels like 40 years, passing through to eternity, just a few seconds ago.
I am truly Thirsty.
You never wanted us to be sticky labeled and worn above the chest for the world to see ‘hi we’re called relationship, we are just like everyone else’.
No, you were not like that.
I hope you never will be.
How you used to stare at me staring at the visions of the day unfolding right before the eyes of the economical streets we used to walk upon.
I was lost in thought, as you were lost in mine, and then I gazed into yours and the lightbulb clicked and beamed my cheeks to grin, revealing whitened teeth, joyful in your spirit.
Alone, I gaze at the moon and release a lung filled sigh of cigar smoke and tilt my head back and think of what we were and where we will be.
Not collectively, but by ourselves guided by the shadow of the moonlight, taking us to the tides shore to baptise us until we wake unknown to one another, like the first time I saw your face in Early November.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 5:13 AM UTC
I doubt it will be a game changer
such originality no one else thinks this way
but its good the white horses are back riding the sea
after being stabled for so long
the flat calm mill pond could not last
that glassy mirror full of sedate shining stars
I guess with a change of weather comes a changing of minds
When the harvest is in men traditionally go to war
too much time on their hands some say
and an unquenchable thirst to go ride the waves.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
If only you knew,
How much I miss you,
Day would go dark,
Night would glow light,
The universe would reverse,
If I unleashed a word,
So I keep it all in,
Feelings all stirred,
Focus all blurred,
Seeking a stabled state,
Self beginning to deflate,
But I keep it all in,
Girl, where have you been,
Thoughts won't keep quiet,
Might burst in a bit,
The heart can't take it,
Trying to keep it all in,
A breath of release,
Im deeply longing.
~A.d | 11 Feb 2015
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
On my way to the pub
I was walking to the pub at sundown
when I reach my destination the last pink rays
on the sky was vanishing,
a promise of a sunny tomorrow.
On the road, I was overtaken by a horse
that neighed politely,
on its back, a crow sat using a foul language.
On the way back home I was late had
been playing poker with matches,
I lost a box.
I met the horse it offered to
take me home the foul crow hade gone.
I stabled the horse in the garage
gave it bread and water.
Next morning it was gone.
The crow sat on the window ledge
demanding a silver soup spoon and
an assortment of nuts.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 3:41 AM UTC