"syringes" poems
I whatsapped you through my nokia
And is it your existence I crave?
Or does my mind order
What is beyond the border
Unseen like the little light bulps in the sky
I whatsapped you through my nokia
And is it your fingertips I need?
Spending minutes on
Semantic and hours on our news feed
And high lights of our day
See my days are all the same
I ask myself questions and I find answers
In the shape of instant messages
Vibrating through my phone;
And as if it’s exhaling some deadly poison
It rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and stops…
I whatsapped you through my nokia
Asking you
“you there?”
But you never answered
Because your iphone cannot show any whatsapp notifications
Coming from hopeless thinkers trying to figure out the typed mysteries of life….
Because your blackberry
Is too black to turn into a satisfactory vision
Of what your future should be;
Because your android
Is practically messy
And willingly complex
Like meteor showers hitting your phone
Every time the truth vibrates
In the shape of unanswered questions
For the answers are there…
But our phones are so smart they hide it;
I wahtsapped you through my nokia
Asking myself
Is my nokia a primitive technology?
A shameful scar on the scale of science
Like syringes ******* all the blood from the unstoppable sweet rush of statistical knowledge
I whatsapped you through my nokia…and all this comes out
Is it me being silly, or us being shallow?
Please do not whatsapp me the answer
For am tired of green screens
And boxed spaces
I need clean streams
Of fine faces
And eyes that glimmer
Rather than phones that shiver…
I shall remind my phone
To remind me
That I don’t need it anymore…
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
Start and stop
Up the street,
Turn 180,
Repeat the beat.
The gurus on
Confessional wheels,
Absolve our sins,
Emptying bins.
I swear
They swear
A solemn oath
Never to
Disclose the truth
Found in our garbage
By the brethern,
Garbage stinking
To high heaven.
Bottles, syringes,
Boxes, bones,
Peelings, plastics,
Old cell phones,
Discarded trash
From our homes.
Wrappings bleeding
Seeping ****
*By our garbage
Ye shall know us.*
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
discarded and pretty lonely, some ideation of loneliness, you know
like that, and also like this package which you told me to carry all
this way for you and i opened it and all i found inside was
blue bubble wrap, two syringes, and your earrings, the ones i liked
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
Dear Addiction, could you please stop knocking on my door?
I already have your ***** syringes scattered about my floor.
You keep on telling me that I want more
But I’m not very sure.
When you pierce my skin everything stills
Even though I hate it it feels so much better than the pills
I don’t want to do anything you have taken my will
Not only that, you’ve taken everything, including all of my dollar bills
I know that feeling of dry mouth too well.
They tell me that I can stop but honestly, I can’t tell
Right now it seems like the only way out of this is a bullet shell
I don’t know why I crave you when you bring me so much hell
When you crawl your way back into my veins
Those first hits of pleasure make me go insane
I start to remember why I got on this crazy train
But then I remember just how badly you’ve ****** up my brain
I wish I could get your illness out of my head.
They tell me that I am one twentieth of a gram from ending up dead
Yet no matter how many warnings are said
You seem to be the only reason to get out of bed.
I have lied for you.
I have ****** for you.
I have done for many awful things for you.
And I will most likely die because of you.
Dear Addiction, why do you make this so tough?
They say that abusive relationships aren’t made out of love
And I know the way you treat me is rough
But I cannot help what I love.
They say that all you do is harm.
Yet when my happiness comes into me through a needle in my arm
And my brain tells me that I should be alarmed
All I can do is crave your harm.
Your harm makes me feel like I am whole.
But it also seems to drag me further into the hole.
It seems that you have taken my soul
Getting you out of my life is a faraway goal.
Dear Addiction, you’ve hit me with a huge smack.
You’ve shown me how easy it is for life to get out of whack
I probably should have stopped before your first attack
But you had seen to put my life back on track.
Dear Addiction, you fill up my hunger.
But at the same time I’m starting to feel more and more like a jumper
I hate you more than I’ve hated any other
You are my most hated lover.
Dear Addiction,
I’m giving you an eviction.
I never even gave you any permission
To take away my ambitions.
Dear Addiction, I want to send you away.
But you are still knocking at the door where I stay
You always do know how to get your way.
Time to go back to my decay.
Dear Addiction
Stop ******* knocking. I’m coming!
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
Daughter of an American restaurateur,
She breathed in fashion's golden age,
On the ramp, she was hot like wildfire.
A playgirl, she likely broke a million hearts,
Prancing on a hundred beds in her life,
Of course sharing with hundreds her arts.
Also engaged in doing drugs just so often,
Not caring even a bit about the sterility,
Oh, how she shared syringes and needles.
Be successful - but never ever like her.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
Lymphoma
There was a fundraising run for lymphoma and other cancers
A little notice for it on top of the garbage can
at a home grown Jamba Juice right off the BART in Berkeley
It hit home: what I was up against
People don't run through the streets casually
and my cat had lymphoma
I couldn't find him last night for the first time
He had his weekly appointment and I brought in
something that didn't look at all like he was the week before
They paged the vet and she came in
saying thing like he needed an IV and tests and
wasn't there nothing else to do
didn't she say that
he needs hospitalization--his liver
we can't tell you what to do
but it would all go in a circle and come back
to a suffering being who had
come to the end of what science could do for him
what she was trying to tell me in her barrage of words
came through loud and clear
They brought him in
with a blanket and a catheter
and he struggled until he got warm and then rested
I wanted him to see me, as the last thing he saw in this world
She took the three syringes out of her white coat
Don't hurt him, just don't hurt him
my only request
There was no pain
Only relaxation, sleep and then at last no heartbeat
Her ability, her smoothness of execution was perfect
and he went limp in my arms
not suffering
The nurse took his body away
"It's the last gift we can give them" she said
and I imagined a man, a stereotypical
image of a man pacing back and forth in a white coat in front
of a lecture hall full of vet students saying that
exact thing and there was a serious air in the classroom and some wrote this down,
it was so true, sound, capable and final
but this woman said it
this veterinarian from Michigan
and through my tears and grief
there was some kind of undercurrent
of relief, that there is no more pain for him
He no longer suffers
and I did all I could do
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle
Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.
And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
Feebly
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.
And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,
Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly
Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was
Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,
When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,
And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Schoolbag,
Basketball and frisbee,
And the screaming.
Oh, how I miss
The screaming.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
Verily this day April fourth, two-thousand and seventeen; there's a boy and girl using razors as allayments, making veins as paintings.
Verily, this day April fourth, two-thousand and seventeen; there's a mother holding her young one in ashes, guts with limb's sketch the war-torn scenes.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a father toils on concrete and soil, breaking sweats for a dollar-
Fifty.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a fiend shoots fire in their blood with syringes, whilst kin makest family arrangements for other's to
Come visit daughter's and sons
In boxes whilst they sleep.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a poet and poetess write, O' how their word's do excite, whilst they
Dieth daily from secret pains unseen.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a young woman's locked in
a semi trailer, smuggled by men from foreign labors, O' how her life shalt be
In a room with many strangers; she
Seeks to die yet wants to live.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; there's a broken child in
Many ghettos, whilst elite buy wives stilettos, dope dealing is the only survival, just to put some food in malnutritioned
Mouths.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; theirs a soldier in many lands, making wealthy men richer, whilst their bullets fly, they come home with the images they've seen, devastating guilt-messed up heads.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; there's God Almighty who's been with each of these people, in their souls he dost seest through, passed their skin, and flesh and bones. He knoweth
Their pains, hurts, he seest their loves,
Loves lost, though none of these people
Once hath stepped into a church. Though
God is not about religion, just for all to
Know his son; who took all of their pains
Two-thousand years ago up on the cross he gave his love. As each of these many spirits from all walks and ways of life, were all just the same, perfectly made and beautiful in God Yahweh's eyes. So his arms wilt always be open to those who hath that feeling of not wanting to live, for he sent his son yeshua hamashiach, (Jesus the Messiah) for God's own son for mankind's salvation didst he give. For poet as thou doth read mine words please do know this one thing, thou art not alone, for dear God Dost love thee, his arms art open for thee to come home to him.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
moving inland far away from
the coast temptation doth bring
deeper in land the head seems consumed by everything
nearing the coast it's the heart that sings
though inland, my love, you will find me
away from the bogs or the shoals o' herring
holding you at bay with *****
keeping me next to me
wanting tomorrow to be the better day
my mind, an island for tromping shores
different from desert sands
when the tide of your concern reprimands
on this island the shells
are smaller and there are no dollars,
the sea, a shrunken plastic expanse of
syringes and lip balm containers,
soft fluid-filled bodies turned into
sopping brown-bag skeletons,
revenges
of modern life.
there is a rivulet further up shore
do you feel it?
follow the inlet wind
near a candescent pond
there is a house
open the door
if you fall in
a home can be found.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
Addicted, I joke of my obsession
Obsessed? I laugh at it’s truth
Live life, move on, go on
It will come around, I know
One day this building will fall on top of me
Crumbling me under the rocks
But I am addicted to whats inside
I cannot let it go
The smell, the taste, the feel
Most of all.. The adrenaline.
It hits and holds, like a drug better than any other
No need for pills or syringes.
No smoke or bowl to pack
Just a mental addiction for physical pleasure
I cannot stop, I cannot stop, I cannot let go
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
I look up at the ceiling of his bedroom.
Lines of laughter plague its surface; they mock me.
They know what we did last night.
Patches of snow are scattered across the floor.
A single, red, lighter lies on his bedside table.
A flame; a feeling of inexplicable ecstasy.
Ecstasy; that's it.
I look out the window of his bedroom.
Tree branches dance just outside; they mock me.
They, too, know what we did last night.
Dark pools under my eyes try to balance out the glassy appearance of dark brown orbs.
A few syringes, used and empty lie by the bed.
A needle; a feeling of maniacal ecstasy.
Ecstasy; that's it.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Don’t look at his arms now.
Stiff and swollen, small muscles
curled in like a mountain:
needing someone to open the gym
an hour to workout.
That arm held the weight,
made the ladies say
ripped and attractive.
Don’t think of his heart
behind thick abs flirting
with girls, his voice
drowning in grunts and moans,
his daily routine.
Think of the bodybuilder who slid
3 steriods down scaffolding esophaguses,
every meal,
who stood up to Death the Dealer
for more hits to take on.
Keep him the image of the unhealthy,
straight-backed on the gym floor
in sickness, sighing
from his choice.
Keep his image holding
needles, syringes, and pills,
bringing your heartbeat down
not on the muscle,
your mind’s logic sweeping off fantasies.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:47 PM UTC
I have an insatiable appetite for oxymorons, as they can be violent in their state of calm relaxation.
Although Bacillus anthracis is truly antisocial within the context of biological weaponry; so, domestic discipline has become intertwined with the Hindu philosophy of Vatsyayana.
So, what do you think about that?
Personally, I have never consumed methylated spirits even though I have unravelled a myriad of ideologies whilst my boots concealed precious opioid syringes.
Therefore, always reflect upon the Code of Hammurabi, because she is the epitome of savory stew.
How alternative are your affiliations?
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Music of the street
Reverberates loudly
Out the dumpster,
From the tiny mouth
Of a screaming
Baby
Wrought in the wombs
Of filth, injustice,
Foggy rage.
Tongues ripped out,
On the floor, tastebuds that
Know the pang
of blue blood.
Rusty nails and overused syringes
***** the fingers,
Softly.
The people yell, maniacally,
Yet remain unheard.
Pain becomes evident,
Written on the faces
Of the unwholesome.
A wafting scent of
Their rotten morals,
Forgotten dreams,
Floats, as hot steam,
from the pavement.
Unable now
To decompose.
Across the road,
A pregnant woman holds
Her cigarette, which
Smells of cookies
And cream soda.
Jesus was enlightened,
Not too pious
For the poor.
Yet more than pain
Was written
On their faces,
Missing tongues, missing eyes.
Laid together
On the piss-stained mattress,
Feet to head and head
To feet.
Nonsense was confused
As words, that danced into
Non-platonic humps.
She kissed him, because
She wanted to feel
The texture of his brain.
Pick her up with
Golden hand, though
She may see you.
And the sad image of
Dollar bills
Inspires the mind,
Making it immobile.
Here, where the **********
Stands, more holy
Than the monastery.
Crawling, as they do,
Through unpainted,
Rented walls, like
Hungry little cockroaches,
Creeping for a bite.
The small infant still
Lays on metal, each
Moment crying softer
For warmth.
Though you will not
Hear her tomorrow,
As she’s carted off by
Garbage men
Who, each week, remove
The undesired
Remnants of yesterday.
Hope for sweet
Needles to sooner bring her
A different relief.
Life is so simple
When struggles
Are never-ending.
Mi amor pequeña,
no llores más. El fin está cerca,
aunque no entiende
mis palabras.
Though the buildings
Surrender with
Decay and the sun decides
He doesn’t want
To keep on caring
The music still plays mournfully,
And only the baby can hear.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
I met a Carnival Arsonist
burlap sack around her
fiery heart, force taught
to start fires
bright, to distract her from stars.
Always sat in her ashes
Marlboro hacked up her passion
until the ferris wheel called her
to get a glimpse at her burns.
Each night it's siren syringes
hallucinations injected noises
bending over foreclosure
turning up folders
found an old phone her
Owner planted to spy.
He popped her first red balloon
kept the dart pressed in her side.
Manic Panic won't let her dye.
Her highlights don't hide her lies.
"I'm Fine" always "I'm Fine".
Built thick walls of timber
to guard to try Tinder.
Tender to two tired hearts
begged strangers to beat her
"Play a game, win a prize
Play a game, win a prize"
Poured gasoline on the
carnival, watched it
burn from inside.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
Late July, and the mosquitoes are out
Blackening the sky with their swarm
15 feet from the campfire
Lurks certain death.
Billy strayed too far
1000 tiny syringes saw their chance
He looked like a strawberry Dalmatian
37 bites, he said
37 small pieces of hell
Late July, and the mosquitoes are out
Billy had learned his lesson
Nothing moves in the blue twilight
Except the mosquitoes
Blackening the sky with their swarm
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
She puts the Drag in "Drag Queen"
A handbag fiend, full of lipstick
syringes sequins
kleenex and a ***** trick
Metal bells tin rattle
at the edges of her words and white milk curds
--A Cursive of Sensation--
in the girl's bathroom
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
asks "what kind of man are you?"
Marie can throw a stone and always take down two
Mascara leaves ***** streaks
down cotton ball cheeks
sitting on the floor of the stall bang banging her head against the wall
She lets it go again
Nine lives, nine times out of ten
At work, at home
And back to the hospital again
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:20 PM UTC
They called it the shallow graves, the place where death plays
Spin the broken needle. it snows in July under here.
Under the bridge they huddle in their cardboard palaces ,
psychedelic moments followed by the falling in to oblivions grasp.
They slept in their depthless tombs, blankets hiding that moment
Of alone time where that last hit was the one that hit home.
I watch as so many lives that once were, are now gone, this
Place of broken syringes and dreams. Sleeping in hollow mounds.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
it is warped, a flash, altered fast,
a hummingbirds heartbeat
glances in mirrors reveal
what couldve held elegance,
but now holds no potential.
a rose stripped of petals,
cities smothered in fog,
we are hurling questions into canyons
hungry for echoes, imaged answers.
on february nights I discover
tight smirks and smiles.
vampires to paper,
my thoughts hold no reflection,
I could capture syllables
dripping like acid from your sick, posioned lips.
loud apologies, pleading, forgiveness,
and yet, I sense no guilt.
love stories of bruises and scars spell beauty,
murals, pansies of purple and yellow
flourish, fill the curves of my hips.
sighing at the blades trail,
you kicked and shamed me.
six months pass, marks splatter your arm
needles now plant promises, whispers,
lies you starved for.
fingers dance against the pistol, never pulling.
empty shivers, applause from the crowd,
twisted approval only you could hear.
eyes that once wept at my sickness
glaze and fall heavy, water beaten, eroded valleys.
syringes drain the handprints I left.
three a.m. brings shaded skies
your cries for help glow, a crescent moon.
but I am asleep.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
Emptied yourself of emotions
Nothing remains but shadows and rain
Warmth inside diminishing
Numbness spreads throughout each vein
Used to be so alike
Hardly recognize you in this state
I am too fragile to withstand
Damage from the drug I hate
Despise you for letting it win
I see you surrender, can't speak
I get embarrassed loving someone
So selfish, careless, and weak.
I imagine I look pretty stupid
To those who saw the picture from afar
Cut the best parts of my heart out for you
To this day you keep them in a jar
Swallowed by powerful doubts
Choking on tears that pour
Sinking in confusion building
Frozen by longing for what we had before
Staring through hazy promises
Walking in a resentful fog
Alone, hollow, unable to let go
Shards of our relationship spell our epilogue
Litter floor with broken dreams and syringes
They cut, scream at me to turn around
Try and patch our injured hearts
They grow weaker with each pound
Yet we continue attempting
To repair the love we destroyed
I need to accept that you're no longer you
Where your soul once was there is now only a void
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 7:30 PM UTC
when i was 13,
"if your friends jumped
off a cliff would you?"
was an effortless,
"no"
because when i was 13
the cliff was a tall,
intimidating
piece of land
with a neon sign that said
"impending doom"
lit up at the edge,
but now im 20
and the cliff
comes in glass bottles
and the cliff
comes in thick syringes
and the cliff
is drawn beneath
my skin
in india ink
and down below it,
i can see my home town
and i can hear the patient voices
of the kids i grew up with
that never got out,
shakily shouting
"come down here;
it's easier at the bottom"
and if im being honest
im stumbling toward it
with an alarming
lack of fear
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
No more long stares
spent phenol syringes fresh on the streets,
barbiturated ruffians riddled,
denizens lost into this killing machine,
over dosed on Laudanum yesterday's ***** with temerity to spare,
turns tricks down
tomorrow someone laugh and high kick her,
those new Barista Gangsters , their marketing strategy
stretches the mind,
enough to **** a healthy Ox.
Lean close and hear
this requisitioned block is a pleasure dome
suitable for gilded beautification.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
Story time is what daddy use to say
Come here sit on daddy's lap
You'll always be daddy's little girl
As mother turned a blind eye
And baby girl laid a big kiss for daddy on the cheek
She is one of three
the youngest of her si..blings
Older brother gone to college
Older sister ran away to Dereks
Place
Daddy told baby girl she was jealous
Baby girl is daddy's new favorite
Older sister high on heroine with Derek
Looking for euphoria in her whirlwind
Needle wholes tattooed on her skin
As she cried to Derek one night
O how daddy touched her
I was daddy's little girl for ever and for ever
Daddy said it and he ment it
Derek pressed daddy with the press
Funny daddy had money
Derek came up dead....
...... two days later
Bullets wholes in Dereks corpse surrounded by syringes
Older sister slit her wrist
But daddy's there to save her
You're daddy's little girl as he rushed her to the hospital
Daddys is her savior
Is how New York Times played it
Older sister back at daddy's house
Baby girl was missing her
Kisses on kisses to older sister
From daddy's favorite girl
As no one cried over Derek
Weeks gone
One day in the shower daddy walks in as older sister bathes
Fear in those eyes but daddy sees love
Daddy Scrubs her back with a sponge
You'll always be my little girl
Wether home or gone
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
five milligrams of xanax
straight to the neck
two packs of those awful light cigarettes, a gram of baby powder quality ******* trojans, two syringes
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
White lines on the kitchen table.
Your head, C10H15N,
Altoids box under the keyboard.
Your heart, C21H23NO5,
Syringes up your sleeve. ***** on your chest.
Your veins, C18H21NO3,
Dropping acid like the Aztecs.
Your tongue, C20H25N3O,
What will it take to strip your blood down
to the salt and the rust?
5 more Klonopin, 5 more Xanax,
you're on the floor,
a boring story,
I've heard it before.
Keep it far from me.
(You're not close enough. Please.)
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC