"stridently" poems
Look in the mirror. Let us both look.
Here is my naked body.
Apparently you like it,
I have no reason to.
Who bound us, me and my body?
Why must I die
together with it?
I have the right to know where the borderline
between us is drawn.
Where am I, I, I myself.
Belly, am I in the belly? In the intestines?
In the hollow of the *** In a toe?
Apparently in the brain. I do not see it.
Take my brain out of my skull. I have the right
to see myself. Don’t laugh.
That’s macabre, you say.
It’s not me who made
my body.
I wear the used rags of my family,
an alien brain, fruit of chance, hair
after my grandmother, the nose
glued together from a few dead noses.
What do I have in common with all that?
What do I have in common with you, who like
my knee, what is my knee to me?
Surely
I would have chosen a different model.
I will leave both of you here,
my knee and you.
Don’t make a wry face, I will leave you all my body
to play with.
And I will go.
There is no place for me here,
in this blind darkness waiting for
corruption.
I will run out, I will race
away from myself.
I will look for myself
running
like crazy
till my last breath.
One must hurry
before death comes. For by then
like a dog ****** by its chain
I will have to return
into this stridently suffering body.
To go through the last
most strident ceremony of the body.
Defeated by the body,
slowly annihilated because of the body
I will become kidney failure
or the gangrene of the large intestine.
And I will expire in shame.
And the universe will expire with me,
reduced as it is
to a kidney failure
and the gangrene of the large intestine.
12k
again your words garner tears
i am fought from within
between wretched smiles aching with the shame of words i've shared
listened to, copied, written, "shared"
and yet never truly shared
those doors are gone: i have shared
and one has listened, shining love as hot to bear as sun...
refracted in my tears the warmth
is as a solar flare of unexpected love--
distrusts flung of self for undeserving care,
i waver-wallow, sing another cracking grasp,
slurp my sniffle-ramen soup to comfort ten-year wounds
all open now, shining, wincing in the sun.
i would bare my bones, it seems,
in urgent need to stamp the world an honest love.
what have i waited for? better words to come and scare us into final sum?
a final balance done, as if a math could send us there?
where? where has the daylight gone and come?
how old this starlight sinking from
i try to laugh and fail,
giving fame another final finger-flipping off
as that one girl said once, long forgotten, "cradling
her last fledgling flying ****
and kissing it on to fated final flight"
yes. discovered now by one, i heal in single sun
i beg from those in shade or hurting from my blindest words a balm
a balm of knowing deep i seek to undiscover harm...
a balm of knowing deep the wholesome love of self that overflows to all...
Mokume told me, "love them" as i struggled with their hate,
he asked my love as to her love for me,
he asked me of my love i held for her--and which was more,
the love of self or love of her
and so i wavered in the meanings love has come to bear
while he taught stridently the meaning of Yoruba masks,
the bowl atop the symbol-studded head
the brims so overfull they shower all who look,
or dare to touch its bursting river-majesty
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
I have named it.
The kittens name is....Crystal.
It is an apt name, seeing as
she felt compelled to break
my crystal goblet.
The very one I "drink" from
on the occasions when someone
tries to break in.
One must see to use manners
when one is in his own home.
Crystal has not one.
She has already used my coffin
as an outhouse.
We are working stridently on
that particular issue.
Last nights hunt was....well,
boring, to say the least. I was
distracted. My thoughts were of
home and what Crystal was doing now.
I need to take time.
Feel the flavor of the hunt.
Feel my preys fear.
Or it is like drinking Ale,
instead of a rare wine.
Both will get you there.
But, as I alwyas say,
One must always choose style. It is
what separates us from...well,
uncouth mortals and such.
I am not a snob.
I may be pure evil, true.
But, I do have standards.
Few that they may be.
I believe I am fit now.
Tomorrows nights hunt will be
one of the most fun.
I am going to a party.
One I must crash, of course.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
Boldly **** and glowing with pride
The sun preens and shows off what’s inside
Why think of lemon when you can think of lime?
This bright growing color is really sublime
Cool and aloof, all hear the crashing of tides
Stridently true, it gallops and rides
Nothing rhymes with purple
That *****
A draining line that rolls and spreads
It blurs our eyes and fills our heads
Nothing rhymes with orange either
Maybe purple and orange should hook up
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
At a quarter past eleven AM Charles took the stairs down to the lobby. Spare, yet stridently attired, he moved with the august vigor of a man only a third of his sixty-two years. Smart shoes, brimming smile and shoulders laden in the heavy weave of his sharp overcoat, Charles exchanged a quick wink with the precisely groomed lobby girl.
"Always a pleasure." He quipped.
"Always." She replied.
Drawing a deep breath of the frigid air, Charles paused as he pressed his shining wingtips into the undisturbed palate of that previous night's latest snowfall. Looking around excitedly, admiring the deep shimmer of that brisk morning:
Charles was struck down immediately by a large volume public transport–moving at an unusually high velocity.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
forgive impulsive aches it makes the earthquake you intake less of a moral mistake . prescriptions that enslave the absent waves, silent mindsets stridently crash into relapse. perhaps the map possess a crave of the same shame. but see I'm to blame, my mom wasn't the influence staining my strains. See she was tamed, and ashamed. blue chains only entered her veins, bruising the pain in her brain.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
Each of us has a version, an expectation - if you will, of just what "When" means. I wandered this place - coffee in hand. Looking, looking, listening, moving on. Friends, strangers, nooks and grannies, lil cracks in the walls - windows all, windows to the world of all the places that aren't and yet were... and its Tuesday no less - figures, all visited, ringing so stridently in the ears...
The sounds of silence...
"When..."
When -
we forget
how loud the silence is
at 3AM, then 4 ~
at breakfast - as first a habit
- then just a chore
then an unwanted pause
then... you don't NEED to sit
- even at a table -
to listen...
to your silence.
When -
did you learn to listen to yourself?
Speak the unspoken -
listen to heartbeats echoing...
When -
do you realize being who you are
IS
who you are...
When -
do you look IN the windows
- rather than out?
When do WE
learn how to cry
- without a why?
When...
...all the never-ever-mores
forevers
- closed doors on times
on dreams
on moments, lives
...on the whispers
When?
I know
...now.
Chris
© 2012 Chris
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
Immersed in thinking about age
thinking about thinking
shoulders seem to stiffen,
worsen each year. OUCH!
My uninterested moving finger
clicks, pings, crackles away
President Reagan's facial-histeronic-gesture
He shimmers, waivers,shrivals away
into a diminutive BB hole
in the center of my TV screen
until nothing
but a slightly hissing grey tube
Making a paper plane
out of newspaper,
small black letters
spell out S-A-L
which is the beginning of the word Salvador,
that eventually meets the dug-out
paper portion of the cockpit
Looking out the window,
three stories up
between locusts and spruce
on thirteenth street,
watching potential victims
trying awfully hard to find
the right vein with ***** needles,
much too strung out
to fully hide their activities
in half hidden alley ways and small hidden streets
An old transvestite
with sad eyes, pucker lips,
looking like "" Whatever happened to Baby Jane"
with two exaggerated
round ruby painted marks
on both cheeks,
slightly wobbles on skinny ankles and heels to match,
stridently he calls forth, "Hi girlfriend"
to his look alike mirror image
just across the street
"Pop" the old provincial street wino,
trying to act as though
he was still a teenager
wearing an old Afro;
a bit demented, he acts out
his cliche' role, half babbling
half representations of life,
trying to sell almost everything
salavaged from trashday
dumpsters
Then tossing this seemingly innocous
hand folded paper plane out of the window,
a sudden horrible gripping feeling
overwhelms me but yet of relief,
Imagining tossing
this very plane,
that I held in my trembling hand
contained an all
devastating device underneath...
THEN...BOOM!!!
MUSHROOM SOUP
THE END OF MISERY...
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
I hate myself for being so rude
I hate myself for watching them ****
I hate myself for crying alone in the dark
I hate myself that i did not made any one to notice my bark
I hate myself for my frantic work
I hate myself for being called defected, outdated, and ****
I hate myself for distracting the attention
I hate myself for always getting detention
I hate myself for not smiling in my life ever
I hate myself for being so dumb and useless forever.
I hate myself for the manner-less things that I've done
I hate myself because I'm loved by none
I hate myself for losing myself in reading mysteries
I hate myself for not having my name in the book of histories
I hate myself for always over thinking on everything
I hate myself for refraining my thinking
I hate myself for living life stridently
I hate myself for living only in my nightmares particularly
I hate myself for the nobbling
I hate myself for my killing
I hate myself for all the pain that I've caused you dad
I hate myself as your 'daughter' was the poison of the home
I hate myself for everything
I hate myself as I let the stressful wail to sing.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
One minute she’s standing before me,
Is stridently screaming her claims,
And then in a moment of horror,
I watch as she bursts into flames.
There isn’t a fire around her,
Not even a spark to begin,
But then she erupts in a moment,
The fire bursts out from within.
I’ve heard that it’s happened to others
They burn with a spiritual flame,
Some essence of horror within them
Devouring their body the same,
But nothing will char things around them
It only destroys skin and bone,
Their chairs and their rooms are protected,
It doesn’t set fire to their home.
I try to remember what caused it,
What happened to scramble her brain,
What started the turmoil and forced it,
To burst out and drive her insane,
The flames started under her eyelids
Then roared in a burst from her throat
It seemed to be something that I did,
It may have been something I wrote.
I don’t dare to start a new friendship,
With women I knew from before,
There’s always some thing that might end it
With her flaming out on the floor.
She always said I was controlling,
Was cold and was hard, and I am,
But maybe that’s why; she’s a woman,
And I, thank my stars, am a man.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC