"sullying" poems
us humans haven't quite cleaned up
everyday we send nasty chemicals spiraling up
which invariably stuffs the ozone layer up
our polluting of this rim of protection
continually goes on we're not holding the pollutants in retention
which shows we're damaging its convention
there needs to be more
innovative ideas developed
to subdue the ***** air
which we humans
keep overly producing
here and everywhere
so as the ultra violet streams
don't not become too extreme
they do irreparable harm
and give cause for alarm
we humans have an obligation
to our planet's ozone cover
by not sullying its protective sheath
with tons of polluting smother
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.
Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples
I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.
Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
There's no sullying its consternation of him in her,
her in him.
A downy black of exquisite precaution...pops its
ruffled heretofore and floats.
As if a night cocked back its neck to calculate the
trauma, longingly poised as a swivel of mottled
blood.
The black swan's eyes fork some bygone coruscation
to their very top...as if in the throes of demonic rapture.
Whereby reality's moments of lucidity seem to catch
frozen frames in want of editing.
Thereupon...as there it is, as there it goes...the black
swan subsumes, wears the guise of regal unnaturalness.
A betokened freak loosed...loosed...so...softly, at
maximum indifference...O black swan.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
Experience is as satisfying as a double whiskey sour
as a tired director tours middle america on foot:
a drifter doused in the aroma of greasy roadside diners,
sullying his brown suede boots in gritty mud and mica.
He thinks he is real american- as he scavenges
inspiration from a photo of a lone tree,
an overweight waitress,
a broken down motorcycle...
A small depression in the ***** pavement
is the most famous footprint most towns have seen;
they come and go as quickly as passing cars;
as quickly as fame and infamy.
He thumbs his way from
state to state, picked up in nowhere Ohio by
a passing Van filled with a burgeoning indie band.
They discuss irony, old films and a mutual
dislike of disco as the van storms past town after town.
The band tours the country looking for fame
as he tears from town to town attempting to forget it.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
i’ve had too much to drink tonight.
please excuse me if i stumble.
have you ever been to a bar where you want to **** in the sink?
not in any, **** this place” sort of way,
just,
on principle.
this is the sort of place
where patrons
**** in the sink.
the sort of tavern,
where the sink ******* are;
where you thank god for grime;
where it’s not just atlanta *****
where,
should you **** in that sink,
you are not just sullying the reputation of one befouled public house,
but are continuing in a proud tradition,
of most noble and illustrious drinkers.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,
separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.
In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.
It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,
but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.
In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls
the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.
The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid
abstracts.
I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch
and watch the mangled colors—
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stall—
the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
In this world of raging winter
The cold is all I know.
Seeing how I bare my soul
with every breath I blow.
Frost is now my only friend
as it viciously nips my nose.
Sullying my inner child
as it tears through inferred clothes.
Yet my heart thrives on this endless cold,
feeling adept in deaths embrace.
Being but the coldest thing
In all this frozen place.
In this world of raging winter,
the cold is all I know.
Touched by none, I greedily accept
the warm embrace of storms and snow.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Watch this thought walk up the wall.
Watch the creepy crawly creature creeping higher.
His waste trails after him, sullying the paint.
Before long the whole room reeks.
Watch him watch you now as he sits on the ceiling.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
watching your thoughts walk circles around the room?
You used to entertain yourself with lofty notions.
You used to write to some of the thoughts down.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.
Watch this thought form a cocoon.
Watch the sleepy drawling creature sleeping soundly.
He is gestating, growing, becoming while you just sit there.
Before long he’ll be something more than you.
Watch him and listen to the sounds of change.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
in envy of a creature who’s life barely lasts the whole thing?
You used to entertain yourself with clever colleagues.
You used to fool around with funny friends.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.
Watch this thought hatch from its slumber.
Watch the bouncing, buzzing beasty birthed.
His wings spread out and he flies down from the ceiling.
Before long he makes out of the open window.
You ask yourself: is this really how I just spent my day:
imagining a life instead of living my own?
I used to write poems, and I thought they were profound.
I used to tell myself that they might mean something to you.
Now, look at you looking at me looking at nothing in particular,
and try to find something to say.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
I carry a vial of ashes
As a pendant over my heart
Sometimes, the glass breaks
And it smears all over my art
Thus, I force myself to remember
The hatred turned into a lamentable ember
The palms of my hands ache
And I kneel in fragments of glass
Of my own creation
I fumble with the ashes scattered
I grab at it and the soil
Which all slips through my fingertips
I am a damnable, hateful person
And I carry a requiem note
Fraught with envy in my voice
I cannot see where I shall go
I have no light upon my path
But I can see from whence I came
A placid path
That has kept me safe
From the thorns and bramble of life
But alas, now I know grief
And pity is my closest companion
In the discrete absence of those
Whom I could call a true friend
However, though I know
This path, yellow brick,
I do not know where it leads
But I cannot move on
There is glass and ash on my path
And it all comes into darkness,
Like thread comes through a needle
I cry out
Again and again
My hands bleed
As I scrabble at the ground
And I know it punishment
For keeping the ashes of hatred
Rather than the petals of love
Or, perhaps, the tears of sorrow
There are a good many things
I could have chosen to keep
In the vile vial
I wear as a pendant to distort
My dear and precious heart,
So foolish and jealous
But, unfortunately,
It is ash in my heart
Ash in my head
And, finally, ash on my path
Sullying the joyful, sunshine yellow path
That leads me, the thread, the through the needle
Should I finally rise to my feet and the occasion
And choose to tread on broken glass
And search my surroundings
For something else to keep in my tender vile
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
Pre-emptively
grieving the moment,
I stand very still
one finger tracing the soft outline of my own, alien lips
the petals of an exotic lily,
the mystery of my own making
leaves me breathless and powerful in the dawn,
before the elation becomes regret
and my reasons are erased.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 5:40 AM UTC
I get scared that I don't do much, and I get scared when strangers yell at or touch me. I get scared of whizzing cars that go so fast that they'd turn me into pulp and broken bones under the weight of their axels because I'm afraid of broken bones and of falling. I'm scared of being a coward and of sullying or destroying my integrity.
I'm afraid of people--especially boys--and how and why they make me feel because it seems I either care too much or not enough, and I get scared of both. I get scared and mean when they say nice things to me since I'm not very nice to myself. I get the jitters when they talk to me and I get scared because I feel and act dumb.
I'm scared of being stupid and I'm scared of being overestimated. I'm scared of apathy, and I'm frightened by the willful ignorance that exists everywhere.
Most of all, I'm afraid of causing others unnecessary suffering.
I want to be better, I sincerely do. It is just all very frightening sometimes.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
an innocent little girl
violated
by grotesque men
their sullying hands
put upon her
such deeds
deserve a punishment
most severe
she so angelic
she so dear
her innocence
stolen away
the horror of what she's been through
shall stay indelibly marked in her mind
the evil those men
did perpetrate
calls for Indian law
to bring down
a solid sentencing weight
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
The darkness creeps in
a little moonlight touches you
your skin, bright, smooth, motionless
as you lay there
sleeping
deep breathes and sighs
rolling in the deep of your voice
I sit here watching you
a dim glow at the tip of my mouth
creates an eerie red cast of light
it plays off the freckles
scattered on your shoulders
like stars
whispering to me
you move
and groan
a distress and cry to the night
some bad dream
sullying the sweet confines
of your inner most thoughts
I reach out
touch you
bring you back to me.
"come back to bed"
it's all i get from you and a squezze on my hand
the red light runs off your shoulders
and i return
to your warm embrace
once again
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
I am setting this free
This sullying feeling that
Seems to surround us when-
Ever we conjoin paths
I’ll miss parts of you,
The parts that attracted
Me to you early on
Not the disturbances that
Crept out and cleared up
This illusion
Now you might say
I am not who I
Pretended to be
And that to you
I am tainted
Fine, I can be that
I am anything
You perceive me as
But you see,
It does not matter
This naïve view you hold
Because to me,
I am a free bird…
But, try not to think too hard
I was just a figment
Of your imagination
I do not exist
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Song is my choice, what say you brothers?
Rick reloaded his bow, nocked it back, aimed his next assualt,
He'd use symphony to set her free, see the girl released from silence,
Or cleanse her of the inner monster sullying her soul, plaguing her mind,
And crushing her heart.
John smiled, drew back his humming axe for more blows to come,
He rose his tenor to lift leaves and rocks, in clods and clumps,
Stealing foundation away from treacherous underbellies, slithering towards them,
Drawn fangs overflowing with venom, bringing the ground to a sizzle,
Rushed as a blurry confluence of approaching green, darting back and forth,
Paul removed his hand barring Kevin from impulse, allowing him to strike,
Delving into the allowance of angels.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
the worship service looks full this morning
though, admittedly, i haven't been
in attendance since Christmas.
families in their Sunday best
sit on wooden pews
in a patriarchal church
that spent its tithings
on a multi-million dollar
gymnasium rather than the poor
their savior told them to look out for.
men, women, and children
awkwardly pretend
to sing contemporary hymns
beneath their breath,
hoping no one will notice
as they pick their noses,
thinking absently of Easter dinner.
i write poems
while the pastor prattles,
his shallow words
an empty drone
filling my ears
with white noise.
i feel myself drifting.
i haven't been sleeping
lately. the news has got me thinking
each passing day might be our last
on planet Earth and i'll be incensed
if i waste one minute more
than necessary
in this cramped
and ugly church,
a sanctuary smelling faintly
of old ladies, cheap perfume,
and wilted flowers dying silently.
just one more week
and i'll have been
god-free for half a decade.
for now,
i grin and bear the tedium
and mourn the tarnished legacy
of the radical rabbi,
a Nazarene who took on an Empire
and died by his convictions.
i daresay,
he'd be rolling in his grave
if he could see
these rich, white
Presbyterians sullying
his good name—
provided, of course,
he'd not so famously
vacated the premises.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 10:42 AM UTC
the children
these mere babes
trust the adults
yet the adults
betray their trust
and do unspeakable things
that repulse decent people
within a society
the children '
aren't safe
the children
aren't secure
in the hands of men and women
who are so
impure
the children
cannot fully blot out
what has been done to them
the sullying of their bodies
and the distressing of their minds
stays over a lifetime
the children
need
the law's protection
from the
predator's
filthy infection
the children
suffering
the horrific assaults
which leave
repugnancy's
marring results
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
Love will be found, even in love's dearth,
No truth more plentiful and abundant,
For Love warms my heart the breadth of its girth,
And warms me with her truth, resplendent,
Love is dove, she's peace and fire,
A raggedy ribbon on the breeze,
On golden wings she aspires,
Like one of nature's dutiful bees,
Love is a butterfly, fragile, soft,
Painted with pallet got from dream,
On sublime wings borne aloft,
Her aura vivid and supreme,
I welcome Love, her divine zephyr,
That flutters, beckons out to me
That warms me with other worldly ether,
And makes me sail on sunny seas.
Love is no crime, a truth known to all,
For she does not discriminate,
Love's dearth the righteous mind appals,
Should in that truth we ruminate,
Those who know not doubt Love's truth,
The shallowest of all denial,
A kind of beauty rare, forsooth,
Dost yet withstand a cynic's trial,
They cannot dream of sullying her flame,
With their inferior hand and magic,
With treacherous tale and treacherous game,
And crass, perverted logic,
Her truth will ring out, proud and loud,
Across the flowering universe,
Our Hearts clad in divinest shroud,
I communicate its joys in verse.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
I want to catch a butterfly.
A pretty little butterfly,
Delicate, Beautiful, curving, intense, vibrant.
But not trapped in a net.
She chooses my rough hand,
Rather than a rich flower to provide for her.
Not a conservative or vain butterfly.
Not one that flutters around you,
But has an aversion to touch.
A butterfly that longs to be admired,
In all her beauty,
Only by me.
To land on MY hand,
Let ME stroke her wings,
With rough, sullying fingers.
Beckoning me,
With her soft fluttering,
And as I stroke,
Opening willingly to my touch.
Just a little at first,
Sensitive and nervous,
But as I respond with care
To her beckoning colours,
She opens wide,
So I can caress her delicate, vulnerable wings,
And play.
Until her colours stain my hand,
And she is tired,
And we rest together.
My ***** little butterfly.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Pure was the snow
now muddied-
by the ***** boots
of travelers
who never settle.
Roaming from town to town
sullying snowfalls everywhere.
Why, oh traveler
do you step onto the snow
and create an eternal imprint,
only to walk away?
Sep 28, 2024
Sep 28, 2024 at 11:08 PM UTC
I saw you
I thought a light in the dark of night
Someone who doesn't exist
Someone I want to be
I saw you
And quickly put you on a pedastle
A paragon of ideals
Perfection
I saw you
Make choices that change fate
Become something else
Something less
I saw you
And I couldn't believe
Sullying what is pure
No longer dressed in white
And its too late
I want love
I thought you wanted
But you want love
In physical form
Nothing more
You're just a ****
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
Mystic lake, nestled in the kind of scenery
Landscape painters drive many miles to find.
Water. so clear you can see
Almost to creation and the rocks
A hundred feet below.
Cold but never frozen,
It’s water is the color of a Summer sky
Because it is so pure.
Recreation Paradise straddling two states-
Boating, hiking, swimming…
And on one side there’s gambling
Where you can exercise your fortune
With the spinning of a set of wheels
Or the rolling of the dice.
Such popularity has brought
A shadow to the pristine shoreline.
Development and overuse
Are sullying the waters
Once a vivid cerulean,
But now a dimmer version of the color
With a mistiness as depths increase.
Is it too late to stop the damage
Can people yet be made to care
And turn around the gradual fading
Of one if God’s most premier jewels
ljm
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 8:38 AM UTC