"stockpiling" poems
All weapons of
the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
this pen I wield
The power to
articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
to detonate
The conflicts waged
gambling mankind
My perfect hand
is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
battlefront
With metaphors
of mindless drones
Like similes
to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
and IED's
Can't build bridges
like ABC's
Or tear them down
with death regimes
By rusting through
the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
verbal grenade
With ****** noun
scorched-earth tirade
On militant
cold-blood elite
King cobras know
I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
resolution
Winged raptor
devolution
Prehistoric
barbarism
Literacy
cataclysm
Stockpiling
extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
fallout stones
My Hiroshima
prose explodes
With nuclear
bushido codes
Released from my
katana's ward
To free my press
from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
imagery
And samurai
epigraphy
Expressions of
my ronin soul
Omitted by
the daimyo
Satsuma is my
poetry
My final draft's
Nagasaki
Ink cartridges
strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
or background check
And ****** every
live round free
Of innocent
blood elegy
And killing sprees
of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
black and blues
A Number 2
pencil dependent
Obsolete
lead-head amendment
Open carry
shoots a blank
Empty shell case
at my think tank
So grip this peace
then **** and pull it
**** my diction
write the bullet
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
The coach capsized and spilled its freight,
a glut of rabid reprobates,
who swarm towards a sea of lights
and fill their cups with harbour nights.
We do not heed the lighthouse glare,
or match the fortune-teller's stare.
We storm the cliffs as if to pillage
the gift shops of this seaside village.
We mill around a restaurant's doors
and nip at hot dogs with our claws.
Stockpiling rock up by the stick,
whilst wearing hats marked 'Kiss Me Quick'.
Because we cannot hear their cries
for whispered arcade lullabies,
the gulls will dance above the tide
and mock sandcastle suicides.
The distant fort once planted proud,
clings to the hillside like a shroud.
Its craggy face a last dissuasion,
against the sea's saline invasion.
Perhaps the Ferris wheel's arc,
can count each dawn against the dark.
A spotlight shone upon each heart,
as we rehearse our weathered parts.
Pastime play or parlor show,
we forget the lines we ought to know
and stumble on with blind devotion,
to pour our years into the ocean.
And yet! We catch the child's smile,
projected on a seafront mile.
His mirth casts doubt upon the claim,
that each new act concludes the same.
The beach begins and ends each dance,
each interval a second chance
to wake the youth we put to sleep
and cast the hourglass into the deep.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
A rampaging torment flows
with every passing wave,
escalating regression
and stockpiling the rage.
Clarity, now a fading memory
wilting in the shadows of a cave.
The price of congenial lunacy,
satisfactory for those who enslave.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
Yes Mr. Hemingway you are right.
I have sat at this desk
and bled, but how much must I bleed
before I can cry?
All this time I have been distant,
and confused the stockpiling of distance
with strength. Pain, blinded me:
I could not see that instead I was building on weak foundations.
Everything collapsed.
Now I am strength-less and can break nothing,
and not myself.
I want so desperately to break these banks
which hold poisoned-water; to cleanse my mind
with my body. But they move awkwardly
past each other-
as if they were once close friends who have since drifted apart.
I need them to say:
*Hey my friend
I have missed you;
why did we stand by and watch such a beautiful thing suffocate,
and die?*
I need them to hold each other,
in an embrace to bring back to life all lost embraces - heads
in each other's shoulders,
as if heads and shoulders were only ever for this moment.
I need them to cry: relentlessly;
not a moment spared
for Sorry;
tears say enough.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
it starts as the first day of our first year ends:
the sun's fading rays reach out
to touch each snowflake
(like lazy sundays
baby come back to bed)
before it hits the ground,
or the dog's nose,
or the very tip of tongue and fingers,
pulsing magnets for the tiny flakes,
drawing them in.
she stands on the cracked bottom step of our sinking porch,
arms and mouth open,
stockpiling snowflakes
she'll want to save in a jar on our windowsill
(like catching fireflies
there's one there)
though they'll melt as soon as she seals the lid.
her hands will be December-morning-cold
when she presses them into the spaces
between my top and bottoms,
against the skin of my hips,
made for her hands alone,
but her breath will be July-afternoon-hot
against my chin
when she leans in to kiss me,
a snowflake and her words caught between our lips
(it's snowing)
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 1:51 PM UTC
the time has come
when walking home
with two loaves of bread
and a pack of gammon rashers
makes you really feel
like you're bringing home
the bacon
I have seen sights
that are from the movies
I am Legend comes to mind
the whole world become
greedy grasping zombies
out for their own personal gain
we have turned our backs
on community compassion
left with a void
once filled with toilet roll
and pasta
queues outside supermarkets
marshalled by police
people stockpiling petrol
***
we're supposed to be on lock down
where the hell are you going
the old and vulnerable
pushed to the kerb of life
thrown from the safety of a pavement
now reserved for the big enough
to elbow everyone else
out of the way
but today I have bacon
and bread
today I can have a sandwich
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 6:49 PM UTC
The only thing I've ever committed to
has been cigarettes.
So I've been stockpiling my doubts
and all my little regrets.
Maybe I'm useless, maybe I'm a waste.
Or maybe I just haven't found it;
maybe I haven't found it yet.
And the taste of smoke is jolting, renewing,
reminding
me of that fear that I
am designing my life around:
desperate to find color in the insipid motions of living.
Maybe I am committed to the search;
That one day I will wake up and be found
And the first thing I reach for in the morning
will not be the lighter but
her
or him
and their pluming breath, rhythmic will surround me
and the warnings
on the side of my pack will seem real
and my god, will I finally ******* feel.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
In the vast difference between what I wanted to be and what I am
The temptation is to count missed opportunities
To what extraterrestrial province has my Muse flown?
My legacy has been the evolution of an unhealthy obsession with death
A defiant middle finger when plenty of years buffered from consequence
Getting used to the fear
Never forget the times I was high on potent hydro and paranoia kicked in
I thought I'd be dead on the ground in a matter of moments
Those times I wondered what the hell was wrong with me in courting the Reaper
Slippery medications knocked me down, metaphorically and some of the fear
Is replaced by numbness and a desire to leave
Take me in my sleep, o Eternal One, just don't let me wake up
Alas I keep waking up
And it comes down to giving up everything I have and know
Totally submerged in amnesia
In hopes that what comes after will be better in it's unique way
No brain to process senses so you might as view them as the wave of the past
I'd pay for mental telepathy and full reign of an active imagination I helped create in this life
So in the chasm between what I hoped to be and what I am
The potential for hope, even miracles stockpiling and inventorying blessings
They have their own expectations
All too rarely amused but **** 'em
In that chasm life still conducts business
Handshakes are still exchanged
There's no reason to give up hope
In that vacuous cave death and joy do a dance, ambition sings a number with missed chances
Like me Charlie
Have you got a bowl of that hydro and a light?
I need the big reminder
Coming soon
Love sonnets to a young Linda Blair
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
There are preparations being made for another funeral in my hometown and I am late again for a fitting,
I pass by a familiar old man on the street corner, still stockpiling ****** and ammunition and I think it is beautiful that he still has hope,
So I give him the last of my money,
$1.60, the price of a rematch never won, not nearly enough to pay for the guilt of privilege but the best I could do nonetheless,
In sickness I watched the faith of my drunken friends run down their faces among half full glasses of red wine and bummed cigarettes, and it is this same divine tragedy that runs feedback loops through my deluded cortex every night between bouts of drowning clarity,
'There may be hope for you yet,' whispers the phantom poet of my fever dreams,
As I notch another eventual demise into my belt,
While the white washed pages of bloodied history sneer back at me, asking,
'What are you gonna do about it, punk?'
I don't know how to answer that question
Somewhere out West my shadow firewalks with the best of the fallen heroes, and I begin to understand that feeling I heard sung about in my youth
I never could've imagined it would feel this bad
Of all the things we do to find people who feel like us, this is by far the worst
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
You were taught
From a young age
To collect your money
Save for the future
You were taught
From a young age
That anything you can't see
Doesn't matter
And so you go through life
Collecting your money
Being very frugal
Never over-spending
But now comes a time
Where you should spend
Spend the time you
Never did
But old habits run deep
Deeper than bone
And so you continue
To play your medley of insanity
You keep stockpiling
Your pile of material goods
But you ignore
Every one of my cries for help
What are you saving for?
You'll die soon anyways
Live life while you have it
Don't forget it when it's gone
I feel trapped
In these ways
I still have a life to live
And not here, no
When will you stop?
Please
Please
Stop.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
An old man on the street corner proclaims
"The End is Nigh!" with a cardboard sign held high
And he's stockpiling ****** and ammunition for the coming of the nuclear winter
He builds a bonfire of his welfare checks,
Because what good is welfare when you've got no government?
And he killed himself with a strychnine laced cigarette
Watching the apocalypse party on a Tv in the department store window
His last will and testament was tagged on a tenement wall in black ink
Notarized by the gutter rats below
To the President he left his shotgun
To the Pope he left his bag of pills
To the pilgrims who forgot where Mecca was and dropped to their knees wherever it was convenient he left his compass
To the pagans he left his lighters
To the street youth he left his clothes
To the witches put on trial, and to the witches in the wild
He left his body to be used as they saw fit
Provided they burn it when they are done with it
Because to the wind he left his ashes,
To the earth he left his soul
And to the protesters he left his fortune
$2.27 , enough for a train back home
His tombstone is in the subway terminal
And they leave flowers every day
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Is her fame baseless?
The dress she wore
Terrible cloth weaved from their faces
Cool and collected
With all of the blankets gone
Fraudulent and naked
Remind us of the medicine taken here
In a rhythm of spaces
Drinking from this voice
Or peering into those eyes
Kissing her lips
Now tasteless
Furious hair often played with
Stockpiling laughter while investing in excuses
The many shades of pretend nooses
A plethora of faces
Like a bullet running him through
Fast and merciless
With a love for the faithless
Bring down the ship
With the burning of memories and places
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
Being slowly stripped
of obsessive compulsion,
unable to creature the habits of X--
its greater pains taken by
pains taken.
Volitional deductions, and
inferences...alibis and motives
scarring a madman's template.
Ram-shouldered entries
through paper thin doors, in response
to off color remarks on his meta-physique.
Isn't nature self-regulating, why shouldn't
it produce freaks of like control?
To assemble variables thereof, Warholian
assembly lines stockpiling non perishables
for unseen disasters.
To man, to woman the reins is a most
satisfying illusion...spurring on the tramping boisterousness.
We like formalities, dress rehearsals, the arteries
of maps...to run our fingers down,
nonplussed by their pulse.
We know that we don't know, today the weathermen
completely butchered the forecast, of this wouldbe
blizzard.
Time is already filtering their accountability.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 12:46 PM UTC
Pick yourself up off the ground and find another quiet place to cry.
The crying isn't the problem; it's the people who see you.
Bury yourself old novels.
Go to therapy and order coffee afterwards,
But always go through the drive-thru.
You can't let them see you fully.
Take your medicine instead of stockpiling pills like a suicidal squirrel.
Attempts won't get you anywhere, you know you're too afraid to die.
Make some friends and fall in love with all of them.
Know that they will never love you back but do it anyways.
If someone tells you you mean something, they're lying.
That's what happens when you're sad.
People pity you.
The last thing you need is pity.
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 2:14 PM UTC
There is an objective truth
we all live through
that doesn't always give you
the answers you want to hear
which is always a fear
but we persevere
and adapt to the new information
or ignore it for mind incarceration
and see how this can tear apart a nation
of usefully dumb
and emotionally numb
people stockpiling guns.
The deniers and deceivers
give birth to true believers
spreading indoctrination fever
like broken breeders
following Loki leaders
claiming the Earth is flat
Covid is whack
white is better than black
commanding to attack
the different ilk
like Harvey Milk
their army built
only blood spilt.
This mind state
might make
the crime rate
climb great
when murderers believe that they're saviors
because the oppressed are framed as slavers
making mass shootings answer the prayers
of lambs led astray
guns, god, and grenades
pave our tumultuous grave.
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 7:42 AM UTC
After harmlessly crossing your border
you take our friendship hostage
guarding your perimeter with sandbags of arbitrary etiquette
a no man's land of manners separates us
you snipe from your defensive position
so I retreat and start strategizing.
Consulting my generals to discuss your tactics
they advise me to start stockpiling weapons
and to start looking for weaknesses.
There is a counteroffensive to your intentions.
While you were destroying my satcoms
a successful infiltration of your command center was accomplished.
Once your defenses were understood
your flanks appeared vulnerable.
Blind spots were revealed.
You only sign a treaty once your resources start depleting
then you ignore the rules I'm reading to give me a beating.
So I'm building up my arsenal and
enriching my uranium in this centrifuge
where we spin in circles.
My nuclear option is prepared and capable.
Pacifism is more appealing than violence
but when you try to erase who I am I must take a stand.
Armed with an ability to attack
I get a warhead on my shoulders
found from old schematics
you shared with me while I fought your enemies.
They were never thrown away
now they're dusted off and revisited
to make your walls crumble
and incinerate you flag.
Your nation starts hiding from what they were once confiding
after my nukes obliterate your infrastructure.
Rebels and runners fill fallout shelters and basement bunkers
hiding from the radioactivity in the air.
Everyone's death equals success proving I'm best
so I develop a permanent wartime economy
and fire missiles mercilessly.
There's no difference between fighters and civilians
because some insurgents are chameleons
so I **** them by the millions.
The more weapons I get
the more needless death
until the only nations left standing
are those that have stockpiled weapons of their own.
Aug 5, 2020
Aug 5, 2020 at 6:13 AM UTC
I learnt to run faster
To distance from my problems
Stockpiling boxes on boxes
Locking away my emotions
I practised the jab
Fighting to get these thoughts out of my head
I stop over-caring
Ended up forgetting how to feel
But the one thing I'll never do
Is confront what's bothering me
Knowing the answer is always y
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 6:07 PM UTC
I committed a crime against the state
I effected the money oligarchs make
So they send me away to deflate
Inside a prison estate
The punishment of prison isn’t enough
They want my life to be extremely tough
So they take an unknown parasitic bug
And inject it into my blood
They don’t care what it does or where it goes
Because the main goal
Is that it’s painful
To satiate the disdainful
So I’m stuck in this prison
Because of our decisions
I have a parasitic incision
That starts blurring my vision
In prison I see things bleakly
And my eyes start leaking
On the verge of weeping
Until the bug starts speaking
Telling me not to show weakness
Because I’ll just sleep less
If I display any meekness
I’ll surely reach death
The parasite replaces my eyes
With its own advice
Of not acting nice
And being cold as ice
As it crawls through my skin
Teaching ways to win
That are quite grim
And mortal sins
The parasite tells me the only way to survive
Is to create an environment where evil thrives
So I start sharpening shanks
Like the military manufacturing tanks
Stockpiling my weapons
While I live in deception
Hiding my deviousness from the guards
Whose giant targe
Gives vibrant scars
Behind prison bars
They put me in solitary confinement
For my humble consignment
But my bumbling mind went
Following my blind pet
Telling me to keep fighting
In this tiny room without lighting
It’s the only way to feel lively
When I know I’m slowly dying
The bug says I’m weak
The bug says I’m lonely
So I desperately seek
A way for people to know me
So I spread my **** on the wall
Looking for an officer to brawl
Once the extraction team is called
I don’t feel so small
In a prison of concrete and resentment
I’m drowning in indefinite detention
Which was the intention
Of this sadistic invention
But they forgot to mention
That innocent people end up here
I barbarically **** to inmate cheers
Feeling only hate and fear
The parasite enters their ear
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC