"surrogates" poems
I stanch internal hemorrhaging
by putting the inside outside;
I'm finding out
that ***
without love
is a pantomime--
an open-hand slap.
Not an assault,
but an insult.
It's too hard to
shed the skin
you left me in.
Even now, I love you
more than I care to admit
so I curl up
like burnt paper
with surrogates
and memories
to keep me warm—
but it still feels like infidelity.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
*the ones warring on the flag of defeat can't be called either troll or parasite... too noble such entitlements, they are the **** genus worthy of ignorance, that they are found roaring on the flag of defeat, when such publicity is allowed of public musing deeper than soft-spoken in one's own room, as transcript of thought made public, ironically without one's geographic coordinates... and what lack of honour to be warring with such circumstances being allowed.*
i shouldn't have written my words among poets,
too many simplicities surrounded them,
with the poets came made surrogates,
a stillbirth, if nothing more
9 months of **** as the new economics
that gave us appreciative homosexuality,
a curbing of the expeditions of population
we didn't blame on Chinese or Blue Indians
due to having inherited masochistic Christianity,
the last greek mythology, THE, LAST!
and no more from the greek tongue! no more!
then the second feat of the suffragettes
that became the surrogates...
and yet, i stilled braved to sing
for the escapist tongue of
brotherhood that the misty mountain's cold
encapsulated... in which i braved
the brotherhood, every, second, counter,
to marriage to a woman...
domestication is no adventure! it's no adventure!
there is no fear and sudden death in
domestication... it breeds cattle! readied for
death not ready! *two dungeons deep and caverns old...
the pines were roaring on the hight!
the winds were mourning in the night...
the fire was red it flamed and spread,
the trees like torches, blazed with light.*
this... this is my ideal afterlife! take your Koran
and terrorism and take a **** in the desert with
the cats for worth of knowing such "exquisiteness"
as it might be worth mining in the dunes of sand!
while the thirst of metalloid and abstract horse-tow
gives your false timing...
and when you take this anger written on the flag
of defeat, and turn to warring with it on your own
flag of defeat... you will be conquered,
slain and tortured, as is my promise, always
honourable.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
stolen verses blanket the floor space
encircled by the inspiration of others
tastelessly faceless
pests controls fail
as the numbers overwhelm
everyone thinks there are special
and the selfies are there to prove it
zit faced miscreants misrepresent mankind
in asexual fodder and anthropomorphic
suburban camo
turban wearing wash-outs
hold court over newbies
attempting to sew again
hippy seeds
their stench, deafening –
sandaled dirt clods
scamper
seeking selfishly surrogates
someone to birth their ideas
raise and tend the dreams
fund the movement
all the while recognizing the futility
feverishly fapping the frail phallus
frequently finding foolish *********
flipped in their folly –
********* the finale
freakish frogs filibuster
night creeps in as the soft sound of mating toads
fill the air
stars dot the moonless night
complete in its absence of clouds
only the wash of the milky way
holds hearts –
pandering to the philanthropist
looking longingly in giving eyes
for a scrap of dignity
and bread –
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
We named you Daisy
for your white fur, because
we liked to name our cats after flowers.
But you were not only a white cat;
you were "odd-eyed white",
one orange and one blue.
Everyone loved your beautiful quirkiness.
You lived as our other cats did,
tame house-cat in the day,
but free to come and go;
half-wild at night,
following your instincts,
even if they were dangerous at times.
Then, one sunny morning,
I saw you from the bedroom window,
running back home, across the road,
and that time it really was dangerous,
as a car came past, exceeding the speed limit,
because in a race between speeding car
and running cat,
in the event of a tie,
the cat loses.
I ran downstairs and found you
by the gate,
warm, unmarked,
but unmoving, unbreathing
Carrying you gently to the back garden,
I laid you on the ground,
preparing to dig your grave,
as Marmaduke, our tomcat, came by.
Not the father of any kittens,
but surrogate to all our females.
After a birth
he knew what to do.
He would visit briefly,
sniff the mother, sniff the kittens,
walk off, apparently unconcerned,
and a day or two later
return with a mouse for mother.
That’s what father cats do,
even surrogates.
Only that day there was no birth,
no kittens,
and this time
he sniffed at you,
sniffed at the hole I had started digging,
and walked off
in complete puzzlement.
This time he did not know what to do.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 4:27 AM UTC
Down by the weeping willow
Where in eves of twilight
Forlorn souls wander
Searching and seeking
Their material surrogates
Even calling out to lovers
Dancing around the tree
Like a carousel of desperation
Ghastly apparitions chasing echoes
In their pearl gowns
From afar it almost looks like a festival
In the sloping dewy grass
You can even see
Where curiosity treads and love falters
Almost as if hesitant
Intimidated by phantom temptation
Yet new blades of folded grass apparent
Creeping ever further
Slowly, steadily, in trepidation
Mesmerized by the eerie blue fireflies
She said to come join her
Beckoning me in my dream
To join her and the company she keeps
Begging me to come hemp in hand
And enjoy the carousel
Down by the weeping willow
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC
... So now it's been twelve years...
Do you still live? We were torn from each other.
Can you still feel the constrictions of your heart
With every memory brought back to life?
And, sometimes, is the past so real, that you
can breathe the very air we breathed
- and feel my skin beneath your fingertips..?
In my world there is none replacing you
Though I have kept my paper dolls for comfort's sake
My cool resolve is straining.
I can still feel the cool coarse texture of your hair
-and long again for innocence.
Will I carry you in my heart unto my last days
Never knowing what was lost?
This forever unrequited love plays like a tragedy.
Shall we never know our hearts again?
Shall I always dream and awaken empty
-you in your world, -I in mine?
How shall we counsel our children- love our mates?
Are humans never to be allowed perfect love,
But forced to part and seek our surrogates?
I wish for you what I have not:
Conjugal bliss and total amnesia to past perfection,
Renewal of hope - for only that which is attainable
- and gentle sleep without dreams.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 10:58 AM UTC
Thump...thump...thump
capillary, vessel, anhydrous pump
inward pressure abounds
beat upon beat, heartfelt sounds.
Thump...thump...thump
guttural, airless trunk
chips down
nowhere surrogates sordid frown.
Pivot, about face...right...nothing
again...backwards...nothing
right face...nothing
forward...again...still nothing.
But there is always blood...
pumping... headwaters flood
pounding fear...
something... always lurking near.
As the root word is Latin
communicate... fatten
language of the word
rarely ever heard.
Excepting
idle transduction.
Talk to the birds.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Bridge of nails
Wrists of fate
Sending time
Back to surrogates
Leave for nothing
Meant to bes
-take to beds
Healing time
And I am waiting
Hidden in vagrancy
Hiding patience in me
Alone in a snow storm
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
They sodomise my eyes
Penetrating ill content
Sickening imagery—cauterise an African man’s pride
Categorize me in a dark corner of their globe
How so the world spins
But we are to turn our eyes the other way
If not forced to conform to their ways, their ways confirm
We’re shunned from their perfect world
They created diseases to charge their victims of a cure
Stole the wealth of our land, to sell an end product labelled _new_
If only we knew the threat we pose, as they’ve always known
Placing bonds of pricey chains of, “hey I’ve got the latest iPhone”
Leading us to scorn our own kind; a few softwares behind,
“eek, your version is so old”
****** virgins/versions;
Non experienced in their translation of purpose
If said the future is only possible if we all connect
I guess we’re the ones always out of service
To conform to your ways to guarantee your service
—Are we your servants
Carrying the destruction of your wars like surrogates
To the outer world
That believes I still live outside
Fascinated whenever I see a white
Those of my whites from Africa somewhat more relatable
To my struggles, than an African American
Supposedly my brother from another mother
No, no, my dearest brother, you have Africa in title
But not inside of you. We weren’t taught by the same mother
We didn’t go through the same hardships
We’re more like distant cousins
Who only seem to relate by our skin colours
Even though you’d see me as different,
Though being much darker
_To the outer world; altering my nation to your outer works_
_I’m sorry, but I can’t live in your perfect world_
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 4:23 PM UTC
My eyes have seen
A tree with roots in the sky
Branches in the soil
And flowers in the roots
My eyes have seen
A woman impregnated by her new born baby
A ****** **********
A blind tour guide
My eyes have seen
A buffalo gazing in the desert
A lion hurting in the ocean
A monkey breast-feeding a snake
A tiger helping the zebra cross the road
A crocodile offering a mouth full of water to a thirsty calf
My eyes have seen
The moon in the day
The sun in the night
The lunar and solar eclipse simultaneously
The full brightness of the stars in the day
My eyes have seen
A leader cutting the throat of his
surrogates
And being praise for paying so much for their burials
All these I have seen in my nation
My eyes have seen
My mouth has sang the song of sorrow
My eyes have rained the tears of agony
And my legs were left to dance in the pool of my tears
And my pen dancing in the pool of it ink
My eyes have seen
I need to drink from the chatting well to forget what my eyes have seen
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 4:49 AM UTC
those who occupy space but
fill it with nothing but a body.
who drape themselves in an identity
provided by a paid designer.
who do use their own hand to paint the shell of themselves
but close off what any soul would see if it made its way through the false layers of color and skin.
who thoroughly entertain their friends with the most intimate details of their shallow hearts and selfish behavior.
who hiss instructions like
bugs with status to the ones who serve them as if they were
snakes with gold.
who have no smell of their own
and sweat what is poison to them.
currency flows through their veins leaving deposits of poverty residue in their derelict hearts.
who live in mausoleums with functioning fridges and bowls of plastic fruit.
whos **** will remain long after the rest of their bodies rot away;
they will continue to possess a portion of the earth with their clinical beauty, a momento of their spiritual decay.
i see them all the time but get no sense that they are of a species.
their sentiments
disease the flowers
around the place
in which they stand.
other than that
they have no presence.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
I just wasn't made for these times
I wasn't made, molded, borrowed or bought
I don't consider the feelings of others
And I don't walk on these shells fraught with sentimental prejudice
Do you want to hear something?
Do you want to hear the truth?
Whose truth is truer than you and your toothless troupe?
Your spineless surrogates.
Your fangs are gone and your signs are up.
If that be the truth, then I be in cuffs.
I just wasn't made for these times
A jest is a stab and a stab a statistic
Whose stats stack the stabbings of someone's jest
If none of the cameras cover it?
I don't care about you, and that's how it should be.
Why in the throes of wrought liberty shall we concede?
Why in the hour at hand, with all on the line...
I just wasn't made for these times.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 11:24 AM UTC
inherently demoted
passion waning in Stonehenge
studying the ancestors below me
(abhors me)
no longer needing the satisfaction, i'm guessing
you'll be needing the ever after
when clinging to the clingfilm of thy emotion
lust for the green light of capitalist torsion
but we're fine,
we made it
we're rosemary
and thyme
did she even make it through or did she just forget me
altogether, i get why she'd renounce me
the pretty lady now's in paralysis
international
clinging onto
the crevices
of the menaces
of the surrogates
mind shifting through plain fields of evergreen men
bottles upon bottles of ***** autumn drinks
guilty smokes, alternative facts and poltergeists
cloud my gaze
renounce my place
forgotten wee daisies were born in this place
but i didn't
and i don't
sister is trembling
sorry, she's alone
repenting for foreign perversions
preventing the invasion of thy nation
crossing the borders with thy translation
simply insane,
simply old age
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 8:26 AM UTC
This place is inhospitable
Misery is the daily ritual
And pain is habitual
Ugliness the visual
I beg for early retirement
In this deadly environment
Where the entire tent
Is a sulfur fire vent
I deal with harsh fellows
While in a marsh mellow
Their dark hell glow
Makes a swell show
But it pervades the air
And light can’t be shared
I foolishly use a flare
To illuminate the lair
Full of grizzly bears
And nifty mares
With shifty stares
Gifting tears
While no one cares
So I retreat to the dark
Of this crime-ridden park
The mud starts to stack
Once the swamp is black
For it’s vision I lack
So mosquitoes attack
Stealing my blood
With microscopic bites
They come in a flood
In the absence of light
After I lost my might
Attached to my sight
Parasites took flight
Like killer kites
In the cover of night
Millions of mites
Entered the fight
The bugs grew bolder
So I grew colder
A subzero soldier
Environment molder
I sparked it
Arctic
Killing the invasive insects
By lowering the heat index
But they leave a heated hex
Leaving me vexed
By the ghostly hiss
Of loneliness
Hoping bliss
Can coexist
With frigid fists
Is a dimwit’s wish
This tundra provides no nourishment
Only death’s encouragement
I need heaven’s surrogates
To come sing my dirges
Until a flower flourishes
Granting my cure wishes
By eliminating the vicious
Cold air biting malicious
But the locusts in ditches
Start reclaiming their riches
And this endless well
Of go to hell
Show and tell
Rings a bell
Starting a new round
As bugs in the ground
Are lost and found
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 1:50 AM UTC
are you sure that we're supposed
to be buried in earth,
earth the closest we resemble
as ash...
are you sure?
just wondering, because i've
just stopped looking through
my grandfather's rea ding glasses...
and what i saw through them...
was akin to having your eyes
open, underwater...
perhaps this whole one-size-fits-all
coffin packaging is great
to cut corners and run the treadmill...
hell, floating murk
of cremation on the Ganges...
if the druids were to be stirred...
the eyes of man,
ought to be buried in the sea
or lake or river...
the other body parts?!
dunno...
because that would rob
me of the authenticity
of where I'd like my eyes to be buried...
or rather dropped into...
apart from the eyes and the brain...
i guess the druids would prefer
the modernised version of events,
given the progess of science...
donor flesh...
even the heart doesn't
exactly fit a burial worthy of
the earth... you could in earnest
bury a heart of a wild animal,
when performing a burial rite...
but there's something
comical about the inverted necrophilia,
a higher tier of hue...
there is a dead man,
but a part of him is still living,
in another...
hence my sour taste in,
peace be upon him, Christopher Hitchens'
atheism, banking on genes,
and an eternity solely via genes...
genes are but atoms...
i see...
a heart of my calibre
beating for 10 more years in
a foreign body...
and all this...
with the exausted poetic eucharist
of Christianity...
and before the techno-tenticle
explores...
a complete inversion
of necrophilia...
a subtleness of life...
and the endless possibilities therein...
at least by cremation:
nothing is sacred, all is elemental...
not this, from dust you came,
but unto wax you shall return...
Madame Tussauds *** doll
precursors, and a stag night joke
about ******* a helium sheep...
with all due respect,
peace be upon him,
there are more avenues to eternity,
than in the immediate sense,
atomist, procreation and the passing on
of genes...
unless you are of course
a modern day Portuguese ****
with the no. 7 roy-al white...
less about prostitutes tier C,
certainly not tier B (strippers and
the sugg'ah daddy teasers)...
no, we're talking Gattaca ******
tier A... surrogates.
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
i'm not writing this for "brownie points",
but i think i've been compensated
somehow -
yes, my father was abandoned by his
parents, and was raised by
his grandparents,
i managed to meet my paternal
grandfather, but my paternal grandmother?
i actually don't know what she
looks like... last time i heard she was
living in silesia...
but? i've had my share of compensation...
much more i guess of a fair share...
i had, on that count:
a maternal grandmother, and two
surrogate grandmothers...
the surrogates? both jewish
(my mother was a carer for these two
jewish ladies) -
what were their names?
**** i can only remember their surnames
a mrs. rockman & a mrs. roßhandler...
i remember coming back from primary
school and eating tea at their houses...
nice old ladies: as all old & frail women
are...
i received a complete collection of
bernard shaw upon graduating from school
from mrs. rockman...
poor **** died demented, and ******** herself
in bed... she'd be more likely to tell
you some obscure fact, than what time
of day it was, or what day or month or year
it was...
dementia? i call that free-fall -
the complete un-inhibition of what is otherwise
restricted free-will: i.e. minding some sort
of manners - theoretically speaking?
beautiful to imagine - in reality? terrible
to watch.
so yeah, w.w. II compensation -
the germans only gave jews money,
the poles? well: someone like my mother -
who was a carer to two old jewish women...
sometimes money has the same
compensation worth as handing the victim
a piece of sharp iron and looking
into the eyes of the culprit...
so yeah... not a bad deal to have made,
certainly not a faustian pact -
mrs. rockman & mrs. roßhandler:
the latter, if i remember correctly,
escaped via warsaw sewers, with diamonds
sown into her garments...
i inherited some of my ******* books
from mrs. rockman, given that i visited her more
than her grandchildren...
and my surrogate grandfather's
monte cassino cross of honour...
my maternal grandfather had honorary
had civic distinction, some soviet form of
meritocratic "diversion" -
crosses, sure, but the problem is,
as he still reminds me whenever i see him:
you walked out the house wearing them,
like little general, and the other kids took
them off you, now all i have are proofs that
i earned them, paper proofs, where are my medals,
you little fiend, you pawned then...
well oops, i didn't get any skittles or
marbles for them either.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC
U upset
Found me smoking
When i smoke
I am feel free
I am above my fears
I feel happy
You understand but fear addiction
I say i control the supstance
It dont control me
I sound like a drug addict
Convincing people your not an addict
I cannot do this alone
I scream in my head
An extrovert not speaking
I need help
I am drowning
I fear
I ooze with fear
But skillfully hide behind well rehearsed pretence
Differant persona
Each unique for its audience
Only one audience no show for
My true self
You givd good advice
Go see head doctor
Pray more
Dont think to much
Its not my mind
Im a prisoner of my unhealed emotions
I go through list of potential surrogates
Non qualifies as allie
Only the true god
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 9:47 AM UTC