"stockholm" poems
There is a hole in the world
All the doors are painted
a shade of liars faces
their colors while arriving
are also fading
but we are still here..
Where corroding slats of
63 year old wood
sound like the screams
echoing across
the crumbling pages of days
burnt yellow beneath the
fire of eyes
The purple pouring through unseen waves in the dusk sky as Janis joplin sang gray star clouds
into my heart
she sewed my wounds
with the ash of
of bodies adrift of lovers
living only in the mirage
air disguised
as smiles everlasting
glass of the
empty kind of love that lies,
and never breathes
yet forever dies
dreams devour you with
tears remembering the terror
in Janis's eyes,
she poured herself out
across the floor of the perishing world
while performing
"work me lord"
"live at stockholm 69'"
to the dark,
we were never there
we were born
into hands that were dying
we breathed our last breath of freedom-
then we were born,
It was then that
I heard the darkness cry.
we are dying..
because we have forgotten
the free gift given,
our lightless bones
loose around the spine
of every bolt we never knew,
strengthened our stance against
the murderous long night.
Choosing blindness,
over looking without sight,
The invisible mountain,
that breathed in our corroding
dusty hearts,
weilding love
against the demons behind
our mirror eyes..
Refusing to call his name..
we have lived for each one of us
just for ourselves ("selflove")
so it is this then,
we have sold
our freedom
to the lie
named death.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 2:42 AM UTC
i have this bad case of emotional abuse
honestly, all it does for me is serve to amuse
because have you ever let something so stupid happen?
all you can do is laugh at yourself for allowing it
i am the one hurting myself -
you you you
you've given me a bad case of emotional abuse
(and i let you)
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 2:57 AM UTC
Chest tube leaking blood from the side of my breast
Alone and uncertain
in a pale blue hospital dress
He told me he loves me
With a closed fist that felt like a loaded gun
cracking two ribs that must have argued with my lung
sign this waver
We’re running out of time
I wonder if he wouldof brought flowers to my grave.
If I didn’t write my name on that line
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 2:00 AM UTC
You have no idea
What it's like, to be a woman
Everyday is a baptism by fire
As she walks on the street
Hundred hands appear
From nowhere, as if conjured
By a deft flick
Of a magician's wand
A magician who sends chills
Down the length of her spine
Chills that surpass even those
On a wintry night in Antarctica
Leaving her frozen
Till every bone stands still
As she is stripped of her dignity
Reduced to a shadow of her self
She strains every sinew in her throat
As she sends out a distress signal
Which fails to be intercepted
As the people look on
Some with fear
Some with sheer indifference
Some with a perverse interest
But none answer the call of duty
The call which is as basic
As the need for oxygen
You have no idea
What it's like, to be a woman
As she heads home
Seeking much needed solace
She is instead upbraided
For wearing a short skirt
For walking alone in the night
For not being a lady
As she fails to get support
From the family she holds dear
As a shipwreck survivor
Barely floating in freezing waters
Clings on to that piece of wood
Her self-esteem nosedives
Like that fateful Air India flight
That crashed at Mangalore
And shifts the blame onto herself
For not understanding the men
Who've brought her to this state
And succumbs to Stockholm Syndrome
Completing a vicious circle
Leaving men and the patriarchy winners
Winners who deserve the title
As much as a student
Who clears his trimesters
Using bits of paper
Tucked neatly inside his shoes
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
What are you still doing here?
I told you to go.
I told you I can't come back home.
But you're still here,
In my bones.
In every atom.
When I said I was addicted,
I meant I was enslaved.
I meant to say I was yours,
You took me captive unknowingly.
And now I can't let it fade,
The comfort of your embrace.
It held me with you,
It captured me willingly.
And I belong to you,
And I always will.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
He means very little to me-
on a regular, uninterrupted day.
But when he talks to me,
he is maliciously welcoming.
He's toxically enduring
and determinedly warm.
It's possible Stockholm Syndrome,
it's definite injustice.
Sweet, sweet injustice.
Sweet interruptions.
My sweet bitterness to his sweet nonchalance.
And then;
sweet realisation that I may not be alright,
but merely distracted.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 4:31 AM UTC
Don’t let him use love as an excuse.
If he can’t love you without your knees on the ground and his hands on your neck,
then he doesn’t get to love you at all.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:
Was it better wherever you went?
Were the:
Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?
Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?
Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?
Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?
The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!
Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.
Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?
The answers all, self evident.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
Silver Beach
July 22, 2012
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
there is no such thing as unconditional love, only Stockholm Syndrome.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
Boston Sydney Oslo London Berlin Montreal Ibiza Stockholm Lisbon Dublin....where are you?..Chicago Madrid Turin Liverpool....I need you home!....Tokyo India Rio Helsinki Milan Botswana....please come home....Gibraltar Alice Springs Zurich Tel Aviv St Helier Jerusalem....I really miss you x
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
what he did
two or so years ago
it has messed me up
oh, yes it has
i see no worth in my body
i see an object
a doll
i've fetishized my own fear
oh, god i want to fear you
make me afraid, afraid, afraid
because that's how *** is supposed to be
right?
right?
right?
i'm not supposed to like it
i'm supposed to be in pain
right?
i've fetishized my own fear
that stockholm-syndrome feeling
it wraps its hands around my throat
take my breath
i want to black out
i want to black out
am i ok?
am i ok?
am i ok?
my brain has blended lust and fear
they are the same
i have fetishized my fear
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 1:21 AM UTC
Smears of charcoal under my eyes
The white of my bones shines through my skin
Blood streams through the cracks in the floor
Horror behind me, horror above
Chained to the basement wall, ravenous
Awaiting my abductor, half curious
The door screams and creaks open
My body jumps, a frightened child
***** boots stomp slowly down the stairs
To the rhythm of my petrified heart
DEAD YET?
He bellows
My mousy chest no longer moves
Up and down
There is a sickening silence
Heart attack
Is there existence after this day?
No escape
He trudges closer, squinting at my shell
My once beautiful thin frame
Now resembling a Holocaust victim
Rib cage exposed, eyes locked
He sneers again,
I asked you a question
My voice box is being strangled
By the sadistic frog in my throat
The seconds tick as I find my words
Piece them together in my mind
And try my best to lock away my strength
You may be able..
Kick
*To **** my body..*
Steel toed boots
To slice me to bits..
Crack
But I promise you..
Another rib
You cannot..
Bleeding
****
I can taste my decay
My essence..
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 4:20 PM UTC
You and I are going to settle this score
Now that you've abandoned your special snowflake campaign
And overcome your Stockholm Syndrome
A dynasty has been created
The snowball's chance begins to take effect
The short order cook has taken a tall order
A citrus feast for a ship of marauders
To prevent scurvy
The maitre d' disarmed them at the door
And allowed them to infiltrate the dining hall
The captain sat and twiddled his thumbs while his crew cut loose
The first mate drank fire water and shot it out of his nose
The quarter master ordered some fiddlesticks served on door glass
The boatswain ordered the insemination of a cow so he could eat the cow and all of its offspring
It was his first day eating meat again
He remembered his vegan salad days
The carpenter and ****** constructed a shrine of after dinner mints
And conducted a seance to talk to their old crew mate, Black eyed Ollie
He squandered his life searching the sea for a doctor to restore his sight
They planned to revive him and allow his spirit to possess one of them
And sure enough Black eyed Ollie entered the seaman's body and they took turns controlling the fleshy vessel
Black eyed Ollie got every day of the week that ended in "Y" and the seaman got the rest
The filching crew of blighters finished their meal and went on their way
They left quite a tip
"Actions speak louder than words and money talks too
Yet talk is cheap
But time is money
So every burning second counts
Then let's freeze time
Take action and buy all the talk at whole sale price
And sell it at retail price"
So pay up man, I told you working here would be interesting
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Look at you
Look at what you've become
You think this is happiness
Her under your thumb
Her resolve breaking down
The parts used to fix your life
Her medium of release
The blade of a knife
This is abuse
In its emotional sense
Using sadness and anger to manipulate and hence
It doesn't take much
To bring a state of vex
This relationships a cycle
Of pain and ***
*** only providing a temporay relief
Before our eyes are opened
To the strife and grief
Yet she defends you
Once said its problems at home
With each word in your defense
I think Stockholm, Stockholm
Since her resolve is crumbling
To ashes and dust
I ask myself whether its love or lust
Lust its loss
A fear of losing control
Like you did with another
Like you did as a whole
Thats why she"s your second
Thats why you're with her
A girl who never argues
Retaliates or infers
So you can remain in control
Keep her in a drone like state
Where her spirit is in your hands
Where you decide her fate
So I write this poem with the hope
That she will find
That a wild beast may wound your body, but an evil friend will wound your mind
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
For the days when your ego slaps itself as if it’s playing hambone,
remember: there’s a name for the smell of rain on pavement.
And every photograph is like Stockholm Syndrome,
where subjects fall in love with their captors.
You are no victim. That’s why I still don’t know whether you’re photogenic.
All I ask is that you keep photographing my self-portraits,
so that I may love you through the way I view myself.
Because my ego is more like that potato clock from the science fair:
surprisingly electric, yet full of holes. My skin is pierced with nails,
but I am no Christ. It’s just my job to keep time.
That’s why first place goes to the skateboarding rat.
The judges don’t like me because I don’t believe in gimmicks.
But when you look at me--alligator clips and all--
your eyes become blue ribbons, letting me know
that I have won and you intend to claim your prize.
“Let’s take a photo,” I say.
You say no, that taking pictures will make us like everyone else.
I ask why it matters if we know we’re not.
You look down at the newspaper. In my mind, I say your name.
And when you look up from the politics section,
I snap a photo for good measure.
This plan seems completely doable until I realize
I’ve never called you by your name.
You call me by mine, and attach it to sayings like
“No one will ever bring half a smile to my face like you do”
or “Hi” or “How are you?” or “I love you.”
Is this because there’s only me or because
there’ve been others besides me?
If I were to succeed in capturing you,
I imagine you’d have red eyes in the photo.
Red ribbons to let me know I’ll never top second place,
that there are other girls you’ve been inside of,
but you are my only. No contest.
And yet you ask if I’ve awarded any other blue ribbons.
You don’t believe me when I say, “No.”
I know you asked as a way to boost your ego,
but for the days when your ego slaps itself as if it’s playing hambone,
remember: there’s a name for the smell of rain on pavement,
and that your wish to feel special should never be at my expense.
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
In Lisbon, we blended
ended the day with spectacular culinary
Shopped and hopped side to side
In Dublin, we vented
as the whisky and Guinness was **** good
Shipped the hire car to Galway
In Italy, we invented
dropped coins in fountains of love we already held
From Florence, to Milan, to Rome, to Bologna
In Paris, I rented
alone in protests and hippies at Place De La Republique
Dreamt of you as they skated
In Romania, I persisted
up on the icy Tranfagarasan highway traps
I saw a bear and it had your eyes
In Stockholm, we insisted
As the Vasa sunk on tables of *****
Pecked on the trains and shied away.
In London, we protested
It was an ordinary day and the flowers didn't bloom
The Thames was gloomy and stale
In Oslo, we transmitted
The reindeer meal and cranberry was a disaster
The gloom followed us to southern skies
In Copenhagen, you were sorted
Smiled and amused by the Tivoli gardens
The night became day and the wind withered
In Amsterdam, we did what we did
Stored the memories on the reclaimed lands
Free-spirited in love and in eternity
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
according to King Nothing,
father’s day phone calls
are restricted…
i live in a world where
foot-rest make better supports,
and broken beer bottles fight
the most perverts away.
i’ve been homeless
three times, and "abortion"
was crudely drawn
on my forehead.
my love for
Frankenstein’s monster
knows no bounds.
the whole apartment
was gutted of its copper
two years after that.
the ‘first woman on Mars’
dream he had was sold for scrap;
threw out half of my books,
called me the reject.
a childhood tomb, raided…
the Queen was pleased.
she doesn’t believe in aliens,
and most stars are dead
according to light-years anyway.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
your "friends" that we meet,
i forget their names,
my calloused palms are greased,
by their squeezing hands
i remember one's a banker,
or he could have said a thief,
his ******** words were flanked,
by my misbelief
i was held hostage,
you were a smiling drone,
i remember when i lost
to Stockholm Syndrome
their Heirloom Suffix changes,
on tuxedos and trust funds,
my rental wears just fine,
i'm not the danger
shorting stocks on tuesday,
while playing ball in hand,
what a shame to lose me,
busted seams this man
I am not a banker,
I am not a saint,
I cannot to be trusted,
I won't place the blame.
I am not a proxy,
I am an astronaut,
But this distant world you live on,
Is far from my plot
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
The boy smiled
The girl flinches
As if the smile would disappear
She crossed
Fearing the bridge would collapse
She hesitated
...Took a breathe
Then looked again...
He disappeared
She lingered
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
LET us go out of the fog, John, out of the filmy persistent drizzle on the streets of Stockholm, let us put down the collars of our raincoats, take off our hats and sit in the newspapers office.
Let us sit among the telegrams-clickety-click-the kaiser's crown goes into the gutter and the Hohenzollern throne of a thousand years falls to pieces a one-hoss shay.
It is a fog night out and the umbrellas are up and the collars of the raincoats-and all the steamboats up and down the Baltic sea have their lights out and the wheelsmen sober.
Here the telegrams come-one king goes and another-butter is costly: there is no butter to buy for our bread in Stockholm-and a little patty of butter costs more than all the crowns of Germany.
Let us go out in the fog, John, let us roll up our raincoat collars and go on the streets where men are sneering at the kings.
2.1k
When my guilt paralyzes me,
when my shame makes me cower
under the piercing lights of discovery,
my shoulders melt.
Bone becomes fluid, leaks into cavities,
pools around my organs in puddles:
puddles that fill crevices, then freeze.
Molecules grow closer, fit to form,
cementing my fears together
like negative space on a statue.
My guilt and shame were read to me
like bedtime stories every night at nine.
My quilt was littered with secret hurts
to cover with shrugs and a stoic face.
I wasn't just taught to take the blame
and accept responsibility for that which I can't control:
I was taught how to bury it in the backyard,
how to papier-mache a mask
over my reddening cheeks,
to soak up my salty woes
and further solidify the facade.
As the years passed and practice made perfect,
my entire body became encapsulated in fear and pride.
Independence burned bright in my self-descriptions,
but all I truly had to offer was an island,
desolation built upon an inevitability.
I was taught to hold secrets like water,
a never-ending flood of pieces of myself.
My reflection once told me to stop:
there was so much debris, I was manic static
over a vital broadcast.
That hunger took hold,
ripped the pain right out of my lungs
like warm breath on a chilly morning.
But self-awareness dissipated just as quickly.
Acclimation; Stockholm syndrome.
I came to covet the shell,
unbreakable like the vice over your heart.
I was taught not to burden;
I was taught not to trust.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Independence and autonomy are subjugated by the transnational bourgeoise; and a colorful Mediterranean cuisine is not dissimilar to the Machiavellian arrays of contemporary propaganda.
Therein lurks a traumatic bonding from the origins of Stockholm, which is characterised by a cryptogram of questionable empathy.
It truly is a lucrative business, oh hamster on the wheel of dissociative conformity. Have a consultation appointment with Salvatore Lucania of La Cosa Nostra.
We are boiling in a fascinating and central superintendence. Therefore, my weary and ego-dystonic figment of contemporary virtual relationship: Do not express allegiance to your captor.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
We drink. We love. We drink to pretend we have love. We fake love to feel loved. We know very well what we are doing. We have no idea what we are doing. We gather in groups. We push outsiders out. We know very well what we are doing. We can’t get a hold of what we are doing. We hate each other. We hate ourselves. We hate outsiders. We love our lives. We very well might hate our lives. Stockholm. We drink. We love. We **** ourselves.
We slosh through days. We get sloshed through days. We could be certain that we love the way we slosh through sloshy days and pretend that we have it under control. We have it under control. Do we have it under control? In thirty years there will be a phenomenon. We will all drop dead. We will all drop dead and we will think back to this time when we hated how much we loved our lives because we loved the very lives that allowed us to hate each other and wish we were the outsiders. We push away the outsiders. We are killing ourselves.
Then there are those who are unaware. There are those who might be naïve enough to think this is how the rest of our lives will play out. There are those who believe that the rest of their lives will consist of sloshing through sloshy days and pretending they aren’t killing themselves. And then there are those who very well might have the lives that allow them to slosh through, living and dying because we are killing ourselves. Peter Pans. They will not make it to thirty years before dropping dead. It won’t be a phenomenon at all. They will **** themselves. The outsiders will live on.
We do not know what love is because love is sloshy. Love is sloshy because our minds are sloshed. We pretend that what we feel is love. We pretend that these people are our friends and our lovers and they watch us **** ourselves and they **** themselves and we are all dying together. We are dying for love. We are dying to live. So we slosh through our sloshy days seriously not giving a **** that we are dying. Seriously giving too many ***** about what others think. Seriously ******* around. ******* around is serious business. ******* each other. ******* up. ******* ******* ******* We are killing our plans. We are killing ourselves.
We know very well what we are doing. Except the few that have no idea what they are doing. We live in the moment and pretend not to notice that in thirty years we will all drop dead and the outsiders will live on and love because we kept them out. We kept them out and saved their lives. They resented us because we ***** up and ***** around and ***** each other but we never ***** them and it saved their lives. We resent them because they live. We pretend we do not resent them because we think they don’t live. They don’t live like we do.
We pretend to love our lives. We love our lives. We think we love our lives. We do not know what love is because we are ******* We do not know what love is because all we do is ***** We do not know what love is because we are dying and we know very well that we aren’t well, so we hurt each other and pretend that it is the outsiders we hate. Pretend that we don’t envy them because they aren’t dying.
Some will get by. Some have plans and money and parents to put their screws back where they belong, so that their bookshelf can hold up the book of their life that was written for them. They will live on and slosh through their lives and make money and make babies and make fake substance. They will get married and get jobs and get divorced and get depressed. But they will be rich. Their lives will not be rich. They will be rich but they will lack richness. These people will have everything. These people will have nothing. I will have nothing. But I will have everything. If I do not **** myself the way that we are killing ourselves.
Why does time ***** us over? Everything is changing. Everything is staying the same. People are sloshing by with their sloshy minds. It will remain this way. The way it has remained this way for as long as we can remember it remaining this way. We have terrible memories. We have wonderful memories. We have these memories and then we have some memories that we cannot remember. We will get by. We will get out. We do not want to get out. We do not have a choice. Do we have a choice? I need to get out.
We do not want to leave the lives we hate but love because we are sloshing through and pretending we are rich. We are not rich. We are salty. We are salty and messy but we are happy. Are we happy? I am happy. Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I slosh through my sloshy life and wish it were over. I never want it to end. I am the some that are naïve enough to have hoped this would last forever. We are the Peter Pans. If we never grow old we can never drop dead and blame it on the time when we hated that we loved this sloshy exclusive mayhem that we call life. I survived my youth, I will get out. I do not want to get out. I hate the love I pretend to love because I hate that I love it so much. Stockholm.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
As I remember her now
It seems so long ago
We were both so **** young
How could I know
That she was the beast
Yet she was beauty too
Cast her black spell
What the **** could I do?
She brought me out of the rain
Made me her brand new toy
Tryin to **** off her dad
With her ****** boy
I'm not sure what she saw
When she was lookin at me
Whatever it was
Was just fantasy
I was real and broken
On the edge and alone
She was lookin for trouble
That's how I was known
She was bored with her life
I was scared of my own
Tryin to clean up
On that red methadone
She kept me in wine
She kept me in dope
She let me inside
Filled my problems with hope
Then she begged for my flaws
I finally caved in
We were playing a game
That I knew you cant win
Right then our sun set
Nevermore to return
Just the sparkle and fade
Of the needles cold burn
By the time that she saw
This game was her life
There was no road back home
The truth cut like a knife
Which she then pulled on me
As the pain became real
Now she needed the drugs
Or thats all she could feel
She needed me too
Like 'dope man' needs a gun
So she crippled my will
To make sure I don't run
She tortured my heart
Cuz she'd cut out her own
Still she didn't want me
Just to be not alone
Stockholm syndrome ain't love
But the poison was strong
We were both so **** scared
Held hostage too long
Now I wish I could say
That the moral is clear
I only feel mad
I believed my own fear
Learned a lot about life
What not to do
Never thought I would live
Somehow made it through
It takes two to dance
Two to give a lie power
Two to make a heart break
Two to turn a love sour
I want to believe
Our intentions were pure
The world drenched in filth
Victimized me and her
Regrets pile up
Resentment runs deep
While I look back and wish
Your heart I could keep
Mines tattered and torn
I know yours is too
Sometimes when I can't sleep
I still think about you
Cast blame all you want
It may even be true
But please stop hating me
Forgive yourself too.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC