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27182818 Jul 15
Welcome to the journey!
On this brilliant trip
We shall traverse absurdistan
To make our way to our final destination:
Mutual annihilation

Strap in or make yourself sparse
As we begin this farce
Traveling through Shitville
To get torn apart by the storm
Until maybe we can move on?

Next pit stop is Pointless Peak
Another amalgamation of lies
Beware of your feet
Turning and turning
Running in circles, around and around
Dizzy, we finally fall off the edge

Straight into Snake Valley
Where the snake
That set us on this road
Can sneak back into the fold
To wreak more havoc
We weren’t quite sold

But now we all are
And it’s no longer that far

It’s playtime
Time for some more mud slinging
Enough slander to keep the ears ringing
Nobody want to hear reason
No matter it was never a goal
To resolve conflict at all

Almost there
At the ninth circle of hell
We finally made it all the way
So we can stay to play
This game of insanity
Feeding our own vanity
Forgetting the promises we break

So much destruction
So much loss
Is this what we become?
Everyone for themselves
Frozen deeper as the resentment grows
Never thought these bonds were so fragile
They’d shatter under a grain of mistrust
Or maybe the greed just cut through
The last strings keeping us together
(15.07.2019), raw
Dead Rose One Apr 2018


unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)

each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore


the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again


~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
Dusting off the rabbity
that squirrely tempo anxiety,
closing in with night.

The irresistible pattern
the irrational illogical fight
a battle with one’s discipline,
mirroring our might.

I make it home a fluttering
belly twirled and muttering,
I tell myself tis alright!

The damage done, and everyone,
I’m just like them and millions more
succumbing at the Devil’s door.

And the taste, the burn,
the healing calm,
the shaking and the thinking gone.

Knock one back, slam out another
night is early, rock it brother,
Tying on a swilly swirling
buzzed-out brain and mind a twirling. . .


I feel better now, exhilarated,
exasperation falls to stout resound;
I pour again and knock it down!


Spinning now, not to say I’m spun
but choosey choosing several a pun
I see myself an accomplished one!
Yes, that’s it, that is me,
look upon with thoughts of glory
yank open the freezer for glass that’s hoary. . .

How cool am I? certainly not boring
all night I’m here, pouring, pouring. . .

Buzz subsides, thoughts slow too,
lurid leering, slobbering swearing,
stupid actions and nothing new?

I lose the bottle,
I lose my shirt,
***** on myself,
pass out in dirt.

Another night of drunken hero,
time that’s wasted for kingly Nero.
But who am I to judge myself?

I’m hardly worse than anyone else?
Lady Narnia May 2016
Oh, how dark our history is
You, my author of misery and pain
With fingers set to scribble my demise
This is our story, writ with chaotic pen

One that left calamity in its wake

You would always start the chapter
Every page inked with words of black
On the point of a pen, you'd viciously write
Using the sharp edge to stab into my being

Scripting, deeply, my eternal damnation

You erased my name and made me delusional
Always forcing me to your divine will
For the pen, always mightier than the sword
Was kept toward the edge of my neck

Swearing to strike at any given moment

Always determined, I'd end our sentences
Fighting to gain balance and bear the final period
Yet it was not without consequences
For you and I were wrought with scars

Etched into the bottom of our hearts, a burning black

If only these words painted a happy picture
But the thousand only paint a picture of pain
A dreary battle between two broken forces
On timeworn pages, brittle-ing on and on

Begging for the piece that holds our final chapter

And that chapter swiftly came for I was the ending
Leaving in the night, gone without a trace
With no words or ink left as a guiding clue
Carefully escaping from your paper prison

Free from the agony of the writer's press

On that day, I began my life again
Starting a happy story; free, original, and new
A home of letters filled with love, life, and joy
Where I'd never dare see you again, my dear, dear author

And never bleed black from your miserable weapon
patty m Jan 2015
Beware they whisper and I am so aware,
that before me lies the road to despair.
I want to believe, my heart wants to sing
but no one can say what tomorrow will bring.
Closed is one door with resounding slam
hiding horrible memories a terrible sham.
Another door opens with light shining through
an angel is singing "I'm here for you."
I jump over the fire, tears on my face
to follow the leader and fall out of grace.
Words of the living run through my head
as I dance the macabre with phantoms all dead.  
Drowning in illusion I resurface and then
jump in a cesspool and drown once again.
Oh to be touched by the magic of caring,
to see words on the page besides hatred and swearing.
Perhaps I'll carve a chunk
from the side of the moon,
or dance with a lover in some private room.  
Hand over hand holding tight to the rope,
I walk each new day searching for hope.  
But night is coming with a scowl on it's face
the leopard is hungry so I won't go to waste.
If I see tomorrow what happens then?
I'll open another door and begin once again.
Midnight Rain Sep 27
a boy is  fleeing
from the flames with
embers at his feet,
he chokes on the nostalgia
of the lost
swearing it was the last
time he'd ever go back,

a boy flees from
the flames
and yet, these flames
never seem to leave his
his hands turn to smoke
during the night,
like a cry for help
before he’s all burnt out.

Logan Smith Jul 2017
I often wonder
If your mind ever wanders to me
When it's dark and my side of the bed is empty
I wonder if you ever think
About the way my fingers felt in your
Curly, *****, ***** hair
Or about how the kisses we shared seemed to stop time
Or about the time when our love was gentle and sweet and new
Or about how we broke each other so many times
Before giving up

I often wonder if things could've been different,
If we could've had more time-stopping kisses,
And less earth shattering fights.
If you ever could've truly loved me,
The way you always promised that you would some day

I wonder if you think about me
The way I think about
How your hand felt on my back,
Rubbing all of my problems away.
Even though you were most of my problems.
Or how exhilarating it felt every time we came back to each other,
Like an alcoholic having "just one" drink, swearing we wouldn't get ****** in again.
SteamPhunk Aug 2018
Arm in arm,
We barged our way through the gathering hoards,
Spitting out missing teeth and blood,
Laugh with tears in our eyes,
Swearing like sailors,
Our mud-caked faces were ecstatic,
The whole place was on fire,
The flames as strong as our friendship.
I wrote this poem as a writing exercise with one of my best friends, sorry if it's kinda bad...
Noel Billiter Jul 2018
Resisting your surrender
Like a passionate pretender
Cursing your existence
So unruly cant even believe it
Rehearsing until morning
For a ending to your story
Searching for a reason
Why you’re always out of season
Still wearing those ***** clothes
And swearing at the Her ghost
Living in your furry
Just makes things more blurry
Some drunken thrills
Followed by some healing pills
Staring at the mirror
Thinking it will look clearer

Resisting your departure
And what seems like constant torture
Insisting on the weather
To lead you somewhere farther
Counting on tomorrow
To release you from your sorrow
Leads you to forgiveness
Repenting all your sins and
Starting a new chapter
In this new world that you are  after
Living in the moment
Gives you quick atonement
Walking from the ashes
The past and what it’s taken
Your soul now unbroken from this spell
That had you been under
Daniel T Dec 2016
These feelings are unusual
She’s amazing, funny AND beautiful..*

Could you handle the pain?
Of only ever using half of your brain?
Feeling crazy about her
But trying not to seem insane?

They say “Move your thoughts aside” thus;
I don’t have none, you see..
Unless you’re counting the ones about us
During these last few weeks..

While me? I’m nothing special..
I’ve been forced to lie when their honest
But here I am swearing to never break a promise..
(I mean, feel the raw emotion within this very sonnet) .

Think of Romeo and Juliet, let’s strive
Our lives could be like them;
You know… If they didn’t die.
But man, while she puts up one hell of a fight
I’m just hoping for a chance to be her hero tonight

An angel on the eyes,
I want to know her on the inside and out
(This part I despise) As I..  
Rip myself open for her to show it’s the insides that count.

I hope she likes this.
AllAtOnce Sep 2017
staring up at spot spackled ceilings
buried in fifteen dollar sheets
tucking toes under lumpy covers
and tasting cheap beer on your teeth

hiding under dim, midnight lighting
and tossing pillows on the floor
icy fingers entwined
swearing all's fair in love and war

making breakfast in baggy t shirts and socks
and eating cereal on a faded couch
maybe a little bit of day drinking
hoping word will never get out

blushing when you glance my way
and loving every minute
regretting every decision we ever made
but not changing any of it.
adi Apr 5
One brain, one mouth, one being - nothing more!
I’ve killed my selves so many times
My own womb has suffered crimes,
To be a poet have I tried
But my ink has gotten dry.
Rebirthed myself as man - for the poems, for the words, nothing more
Everything missed Dionysus like never before!

A different life among you have I led!
Deprived myself of all life gives
In dark, alone and cold I wept.
Destitute and desperate now,
My heart freezing on a lonely bough.
The bulb above my brow is hanging by a single thread and when
It falls and breaks to pieces they will know that I am dead.

Come sleep - or come death,
I can see no difference.
Blind me at least so I can mock the Sun!

With shut eyes they think I am illiterate,
Primordial is the essence and I am her son.

They want me to dance at the feet of chance!
Embrace chaos in my attic,
Die a young and worthy addict.
Forced to live in Hölderlin’s tower
As nothing more than a wilting flower.
My words trembled but were barren, devoid of romance,
So my poetry never made anyone dance.

I clipped my wings so I can drink with sailors,
Walk amongst them on my frail feet,
To be man is all I ever wanted,
Chugged the nectar of life which made me sick.
Oh, men! How fragile you are!
Slowly poisoned by the time you try to escape
‘Meaningless is existence’ you say as you create!

Come sleep - or come death, 
I can see no difference. 

Poverty through poetry, the most human way to go,
Come sleep - or come death,
Let me go.

He wanted to be human - the humanest of them all - a poet!
He wanted to put pain on paper - even make it rhyme
He wanted to be the one to hear the screams of time.
And as the light faded and the bulb broke,
Darkness came wearing mistress clothes.
‘Oh, men! How strange you really are!’ - he yelled.
‘Dionysus! What a man you have become!’ - she said.
Then he disappeared swearing to never return,
Thinking that poetry is for those who like to burn.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

Slow think,
make real

what fighting for life is…
this is the only
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Weil's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H two Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tangle wood and catclaw and mesquite,
willow thicket,

And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen


60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?


Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.
A continuing examination of opposing forces when good is the goal, who could be against that? The old word war is festering, inflaming evil to start a try, therefore,  I whet the edge and swing wide
Sarah Clark Aug 8
discernment is a special grace-
       that phrase normally would
       have washed over me, but

     the fire’s getting faster and I’m
swearing at the gathered theories-

went back for every door I
could not open

      and saw from the muddled
result a blossoming,  altered
terrain still breathing inside out,

      we are here,
if only to put away the days
we circled our wagons,
pistols drawn, brave in the void.

There’s a sort of hectic language
Life’s inner city airs
The indigent grime, swearing
They do declare
As heated as Vegas summers
All ‘round the block
On the Chinatown Strip
Spring mountain valley view
The homeless congregations
Rolling their luggage
Like albatross droppings
Migratory fixtures
**** white on black walls
Black in white veins
Rolling luggage
Keeping precious metals
Coin collecting, jewelry
The bling and fake gold rings
Anything a ***** can trade
For foil wrappings
Thick with high grade
Napping in the inferno
Silver state of epidemic
Many rolling “carryon luggage”
Goes without saying
That sort of summertime language
Inner city airs
That begs
Help. To differ.
They do

It should mean war…
But, come again
welcome to our fabulous city!
Sin ain’t fair.
Love is lost here.
And still in herds, in droves
Conventions packed disinventing us
(Frivolous chatter)
Kurt Philip Behm Dec 2018
The daylight hid from the nighttime
  like a rabbit from the fox

As the sun ran through my memory
  freeing moments that were locked

With twilight came a foretelling
  and its darkness swearing true

But a light still burns inside me
—from a promise left to brew

(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2018)
Martin Heath Sep 2018
Reincarnation -

Today sensing I saw you 'least I think that of a squint
That of a telltale glint a telltale wonted wink
Straight thru to my soul in an inquisitive slant
Passing 'long side somewhat a furtive glance

Yet only to see 'twas not actually you
But a passing stray cat looking back at me

Then down past that path 'long crippled creek
A voice softened so sweet held such mystique
Awakening times of verse uttered in rhyme
As we laid in summer's parched pastimes

Yet only to hear 'twas not actually you
But a proud jay of blue words 'pon my ear

'round the bend 'n riding the wind
Fragrance of hyacinths thru the tamarind
Swearing 'twas you obscured in a trance
Memories now beckon of lost romance

Yet to inhale 'twas not actually you
But the wind thru the willow weeping quite frail

Out of those woods feeling fingers of flesh
Is this you again your spirit refreshed
As if reliving our mourned childhoods
New life 'mongst these ole cottonwoods

Yet only to feel 'twas not actually you
But a monarch alighting so quite genteel

Today I saw you 'least I think
From your telltale shine so quite so distinct
Not sure exactly it might conceal
Your rebirth 'n the wonders it might reveal

Perhaps the morrow we'll meet remember
We two peas in that perpetual pod
This cycle of life 'n its cycle of death
Complete in replete with each of our breaths
As each we breathe in strolling once more
Hand in hand 'long life's promenade
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “****-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

*    *      *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical


a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.


I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s

madyson shaye Sep 2014
in hindsight, if I fell in love this easy, I should be able to fall out just as easy, but for whatever reason reversal always seems a lot trickier. faith is just something we use to trick ourselves into thinking everything's okay when in reality there is nothing left, so no, I don't have faith that we'll work this out because that would prove we couldn't. I'm not throwing what we are into the universe and leaving it all up to fate, halfway because I'm a control freak and halfway because it wouldn't be fair to our past, to all that we've been through, to shrug and leave it up to chance.

the night I was planning on leaving you, you were also planning on leaving me. we met up in your bedroom when the sun had just gone down and we were both exhausted, before you'd been at work all day and I'd spent hours in a bookstore, it was a very typical night for us to end up together. I didn't break up with you and you didn't break up with me. does it mean something that both of us had the intention to end it, walk out and not look back? or does it mean something that neither of us went through with it? later you told me the day before when you asked me to meet you in your bedroom at 7, you'd been planning on telling me you had to work it out with her. I laughed and told you that when you asked me to be there at 7, I nodded and decided it was the last time I'd tell you I'd see you there.
in actuality that night we had *** for somewhere around 2 hours and I decided that I wasn't selfless enough to adhere to the cliche of loving someone so much you let them go. you called me baby for the first time that night. to date, you've called me it twice.
in a perfect world, I'd be sitting at a red light trying to catch a glimpse of the accident thirty feet in front of me and I'd pick up my phone and tell you I was having an existential crisis because I was ten seconds away from being hit. in a perfect world, you'd smirk and tell me that's a really selfish mindset because someone actually did get hit and it wasn't me. in a perfect world, I'd lay on your chest and listen to your heartbeat and feel content instead of empty. in a perfect world, your arms around me wouldn't remind me of how lonely I am.
I know this love is real, and honest and incomparable, but I also know this love is selfish, and every time I dry heave in my car because your bedroom light is on and her car is out front while I'm trying to navigate, screaming "I have to break up with him, I'm going to break up with him" over and over and over, believing it less and less with every cry, I only end up loving you more, and that's some ******* *******
in a perfect world, I wouldn't have to write this. I wouldn't have to ask you to step outside because my chest feels so tight I think my skin might just rip, and we wouldn't spend 25 minutes of our 30 minute conversation having small talk just to trick my body out of panicking. in a perfect world, I wouldn't say, "she's waiting on you, are you going to be in trouble?" and you wouldn't say, "I dont know, probably. can you breathe?" and I wouldn't reply, "your voice makes everything a little easier," and you wouldn't say, "I don't like that you are in this place," and I wouldn't whisper, "in a perfect world, we would be perfect together, you know? in a perfect world what we have would be perfect. we'd be perfect," and you wouldn't get sad that I was thinking like that again, you wouldn't sigh and say "I know. I have to go soon honey," and I wouldn't say "I know. I know you do. I'll let you go," and you wouldn't say goodbye and ask me to text you when I got home safely, and I wouldn't say I will and wait for you to hang up before whispering, "I love you so much I think I'm going mental".

in hindsight, this should have never started. sitting here now I can tell you 4,000 ways this could have stopped before it became such a gross mixture of gratifying and the most painful experience to date. I read the other day that our hearts form before our brains so maybe my reluctance to listen to reason has to do with my heart crying out seniority and swearing it knows what it's doing. It's funny to think about the night we started and how many different things fell apart before you saw me and told me you liked my smile and asked me to text you. I wasn't even supposed to be there that night. I could call that fate, that the stars had me and you in mind that night when they got my gig cancelled and called me into work, or I could say something like, "in a perfect world, I could love you, and you could love me, and that could be enough"
Lucas May 31
oil spilled crucifixion
the prerequisite to ablution
is dirt and sweat
and swearing and ignorance

i am no prognosticator
i am no steel or precious metal
i am no full part in a full machine

o fulcrum in furious preordained
o fulcrum as pixel
i pray for similar foundation
i am no fanatic
no severed-arm mystic

o fulcrum
in the morning
i book keep
at night i dream
o fulcrum of instantiation
i pray for integrity

make me solid once more
RBWhite Jun 2018
Is that your Planet,Goddess?
Stars bleeding eternally,little craddles of pain,
I've arrived like I promised,almost swearing a curse for my stupidity,
Looking for galatic flowers,neon animals and black grass,
Instead I'm left with nothing but your anger,
Walls breathing toxic air, shaking and moving as if life was a constant torture,
Deep seas of blood,
One and only you are,Goddess,
That you left me for such a nightmare,
For I am human and sick,
Because I desire to conquer your body,
Make you feel at home with lust and madness,
Let me see your eyes and stop pretending hatred,
Stop loving as well,
Start using me,
Begin my own Planet.
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